#shaxberd thoughts

[landwriter]

ok i know we've seen oodles of hob hating shakespeare and i've seen some good meta on hob NOT hating shakespeare because he is kind and doesn't hold grudges, but i would like to offer a secret, third option: hob sort of resenting shaxberd and being a bit petty about it until time passes, the bard dies, and hob watches with a smugness that fades to irritation as the original sense and sound of his words are forgotten. there is surely a kinship there too - both their lives were forever altered by The Stranger.

The original pronunciation of Shakespeare’s sonnets and plays has been his cause lately - he considers the Bard of Avon a sort of friend, given their mutual acquaintance, and feels a protectiveness over his works. He couldn’t bear the grudge of being walked out on for long - he had, after all, received the greater boon. And if Will was going to be immortalized in word instead of the flesh, it only was fair that they read his words correctly. Hob had gone to a production of Romeo and Juliet in 1890, in part sulk and part nostalgia, and had been appalled to hear the reverent and over-serious way the players said their lines. Received pronunciation, thought Hob, ought to stay on the BBC and away from the boards. It was like trading a crackling, warm, fierce little hearth for the flat and soulless glow of an electric bulb. And at least half the jokes were ruined. He’s gotten a reputation for it lately, and at parties, he’s always asked to do a soliloquy or sonnet or two, the proper way. It feels like drinking something hot and comforting. He’s just very careful to take a long swallow of his actual drink after, taking the time to gather himself, making sure that when he speaks again, he sounds like someone born in the late twentieth century.

received pronunciation had been named and around for longer, but indeed began to sound like it does today in the late 19th century! i believe in a plurality of Shakespeare headcanons but i hope you like this one. also tagging @auressea who sent me the video about shakespearean pronunciation that caused this whole mess 💛

[valiantstarlights]

Enlightenment

CW: angst

If there's one thing that Hob's Stranger taught him that night in 1889, it's that he, Hob, has never had a single friend in his entire life.

Oh, he's had fellow mercenaries and comrades-in-arms, a wife and a son, torturers and shipmates and people he'd occasionally fuck, but he doesn't have friends.

And Hob, after a few months of being devastated after his Stranger leaves, finally gets it.

After 500 years, he finally gets it.

He is simply not friend material. That's all.

His fellow mercenaries from 1389 want him with them because he's good with the blade. The people he apprenticed for in the 1400s kept him on because of his good work ethic. The courtiers who flocked to him in court do so because he's polite in his savagery, and it amused them.

His purest relationship had been with the stray cats of London in the 1600s, who sometimes give him dead rats to eat, and who only used him for his warmth during winters.

And then it's back to being used by people again. His fellows in the shipping business like him because he doesn't ask questions and keeps his head down. And in 1889, Hob realizes that his Stranger is also just using him for the stories he tells. Not that he's any good at telling stories either.

Gods, but his Stranger must have been so bored, alone in his godly realm, that he'd stoop to listen to a dumb human go on and on about chimneys.

At least he found Shaxberd interesting.

In fact, why didn't his Stranger make Shaxberd immortal? If he had, the world would have been blessed with so many more wonderful plays. But instead the world gets Hob, who hasn't contributed a single good thing to society, and even took part in making good people suffer a lifetime in chains.

Hob thought about it, and the only reason he could think of why Shaxberd hadn't been made immortal is simply because he refused. His Stranger must have also offered him the chance to live forever, but unlike Hob, Shaxberd has the good sense to remain mortal, have a normal life, and die when it was time.

And when he refused, his poor Stranger had no choice but to continue meeting with Hob.

If only Hob had even the smallest bit of Shaxberd's storytelling prowess, his Stranger would have treated him better. He would have touched Hob's shoulder and walked close to him as the two of them exit the tavern, their heads bent together, already in deep conversation.

Shaxberd wouldn't have subjected his Stranger to shallow, meaningless talk about how the Queen stayed over.

Hob goes through life like a ghost, those first few weeks after he realized all this.

He would have had friends, he realizes, had he been less himself, whatever it is about him that made people not want to be friends with him.

As it was, he is only a tool for people to use. His skills, his money, his reputation--all of those make him someone worth tolerating. And stripped of it all, he is worth nothing.

Hadn't he learned from the 1600s? Why did it take for his Stranger to walk out on him before he realizes all this?

Then again, Hob has always been incredibly stupid.

His sham of a marriage with Eleanor proved that.

He thought she loved him. Or at least, liked him enough to want to spend the rest of her life with him. But she was using him, too.

She had been pregnant with another man's child when they wed. Hob hadn't known. Not then, anyway. He was too elated with the prospect of being married to a beautiful lady to even count the months when they had been wed to the month when Robyn had been born. No wonder Eleanor said yes to his proposal quickly.

And no one, not even the most gossip-loving servant, told him about their suspicion. What good would that have done? And anyway, they were probably too busy laughing behind his back.

The poor Sir Robert Gadlen. He has everything in the world but the good sense that God gave a turnip.

Hob thinks of all this, collects all the evidence, and eventually reaches an irrefutable conclusion: he is simply just a tool to be used, then quickly discarded after his usefulness expires. There is no redeeming quality about him. He is not smart, interesting, or good enough to be considered anyone's friend. The fact that he even thought he's worth befriending is laughable.

Of course other people would pick anyone else over him. Didn't his Stranger prove that when he left Hob for Shaxberd?

--

A hundred years later and true to his word, his Stranger does not show up.

A hundred years later and Hob finds out from the current barkeep that the place he and his Stranger have been meeting in is going to be torn down and renovated to something better. Something more useful.

'Finally,' Hob thinks. 'It's about damn time.'

The White Horse Tavern, like him, has ceased to be of use.

Hob doesn't even know why he thought to wait. Of course his Stranger wouldn't come back after he walked out on Hob in 1889. Why would he?

Hob is nothing to him.

[pellaaearien]

For the commentary track thing!

Dream sniffs at his glass, takes a tentative sip. His response is a neutral hum, which Hob must imagine is an improvement from his reaction to the Glen Grant.

“Nice, eh?” he says, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. “Always had a bit of a soft spot for that stag. Well, I say always. It’s a new winery, started up in the 70s. Practically an infant.” It hits him that Dream was still imprisoned then, hits him like a sucker punch. He has to swallow, and breathe, before continuing. “Not that I’ve ever been a wine man, but I always seem to fall in with people who are.” He nods at Dream, who lifts an imperious eyebrow. “And in ‘76 they were all in a tizzy. They called it the Judgement of Paris. California wines in a blind taste test against some hoity toity French wines. The old world versus the new. And the California wine won. I had to try some for myself. Always did like to see the French knocked down a peg.” He may no longer be an English peasant and he’s got nothing against the French, not really, but the story still appeals to some deep-rooted part of his nature.

The corner of Dream’s mouth quirks — Hob still counts it as a smile, even if now he’s seen the real thing — and he takes another sip of the wine. His hum is definitely approving this time.

Hob takes a second to put the pieces together. “Wait… Do you like it better now?”

Dream sets down his wine glass. “Stories are my domain,” he says by way of non-answer.

Hob isn’t sure, but he thinks he’s cracked the code to actually getting Dream to consume something. This will require further testing.

“Stories,” Hob muses. He might not be the brightest bulb, but he’s been around the block a few times and he has a long memory. “That’s how you knew Lou. And Lady Johanna. Bloody Shaxberd too.” And… him, Hob now realizes. Once every hundred years, they meet, and Hob tells him stories. A thought occurs. “Is this some kind of Scheherazade situation? Thousand and one nights? I live as long as I tell you stories?” It doesn’t bother him too much if it is— he’s got stories to spare and no one else to tell them to. Not the way they should be told. He hasn’t thought too much about the nature of his immortality since Dream told him he was only interested in his experience, aside from being afraid of losing it after 1589, and again in 1889. But neither had happened, and given how 1889 had ended, he no longer worries that Dream will revoke his immortal status on a whim.

But Dream looks stricken. “I told you. You need do nothing.”

Oh Nonnie! You've hit on one of my most cherished headcanons, which is why Dream eats, or doesn't eat, in the Waking. The show draws attention to this MANY times throughout the run, with Dream both being offered food and declining, or food being present without Dream partaking in it. It is VERY obvious, and it feels like something we're supposed to notice.

The explanation I came up with is that Dream is simply made of different stuff. He's the only one of the Endless who is referred to as being completely one with his realm. ("You are the Dreaming," is repeated multiple times, whereas we never see Death being compared to the Sunless Lands, and the Threshold is shaped like Desire, but they are still perceived as being separate from it.) I take this to mean that Dream is nourished by the Dreaming, kind of like photosynthesis. He absorbs ambient dreamstuff. He still doesn't eat regularly, because he doesn't need to, and if Dream can be relied upon to do anything it's to ignore unnecessary things, even and perhaps especially if they're enjoyable.

Dream is simply not made for the Waking. He's not in control. It's the antithesis of everything his realm consists of. The Waking is a sensory overload. When was the last time you smelled or tasted anything in a dream? Would Dream even bother to manifest olfactory senses or taste buds? For what purpose? (Again, unnecessary.) Even if he DID intend to partake, it's not like he NEEDS the food. It doesn't nourish him the way the Dreaming would. So what's the point? Plus, it's all so strong and overpowering and unpleasant. Yuck.

But what is Dream also made of? Stories. What's the surest way to get him invested in something? Make it a story. So when I asked for opinions as to what kind of wine that would be high end enough to be a decent pick for Dream but not something outrageous like the 14,000 dollar bottle Dream brought to toast Hob with when he was going to Hell, @moorishflower suggested Artemis Stag, which is a respectable 100 dollars a pop and also, coincidentally, has a fascinating story behind it, which I learned when I went to their website. A story that would be interesting enough to catch Dream's attention. And because it's a story, Dream is able to connect to and enjoy it more.

From there, it's a natural progression to Hob wondering if that's the reason he's lived so long. It's a human instinct to look for reasoning, for patterns. "This amazing thing happened to you for absolutely no reason" is a lot harder to swallow than "I've been a good person so this happened because I deserve it" or "this eldritch being is interested in my stories so he keeps me around to hear more of them." Which is, actually, a perfectly reasonable conclusion to draw. Clearly, it's not based on whether or not Dream likes him, and it's a much better explanation than "my sister and I made a bet and just decided to keep it going." And for the first time, Dream realizes the consequences of not explaining Hob's immortality to him, which he thought he had done satisfactorily in 1489. Immortality is Dream's natural state of being. He simply cannot comprehend what it means for Hob to be an immortal human. The entire course of their relationship is Hob trying to figure out what Dream wants from him and being rebuffed, but not elucidated, at every turn. Similarly for Hob, it's so obvious that Dream must want something, otherwise why? Why pick him, out of everyone ever? Why keep coming back? They've been at cross purposes this entire time and neither of them noticed until this moment.

[unpredictable-probabilities]

Through the Storm

Summary:

Hob follows Dream after he walks out of their 1889 meeting, stubbornly braving the worsening storm along the dark roads.

Meanwhile, Dream is still bristling from the turn of their conversation, and puts as much distance as he can between him and Hob. However, a sudden shift in the collective unconscious catches his attention, and he realises something is amiss.

Word Count: 4,147

Rating: Explicit

Notes (more at the end):

For Dreamling Week Day 4: Storm

Warning:

Hob's death is shown, but it's not graphic. His dead body is also described, but not too detailed and it's not gory because I'm squeamish. Blood is briefly mentioned.

Take care in reading!

[Read on AO3]

---

"You knew Lady Johanna. You know Lushing Lou." Hob pointed at his friend with his tobacco. "You know everyone, don't you?"

It was something that had surprised Hob at their last meeting, how his friend seemed to know Lady Johanna enough to show her visions which would incapacitate her. Just two centuries before that, his friend didn’t know who Shaxberd was. It would seem that he had been more inclined to know about people since then, whether they were of the upper crust like Lady Johanna or someone more among the commoners like Lou.

His friend gave a knowing smile that didn't really clarify anything. "I saw her again, you know."

Hob stared at him for a moment, debating whether to press the question further. He gave a relenting smile and tapped his tobacco twice. "Who? Lady Johanna?"

"She undertook a task for me, and succeeded admirably, I might add." His friend sounded impressed, raising his eyebrows.

That gave Hob pause. Lady Johanna met his friend twice in a century, after she had tried to maim and kidnap them both. Not only that, but she had worked for him. Did that mean they saw each other more than twice, then? Who in God’s creation was this woman that his oldest friend—whom he barely saw pay the slightest bit of attention to other people—had seen fit to meet with her so often?

"That might be the only thing I've learned after 500 years.” Hob tried for a smile to seem playful about it, but then he just averted his eyes. He almost asked if Lady Johanna had been made immortal now as well, but by this point he knew that asking such direct questions would not yield any answers. Perhaps he would just wait if she would turn out to be the next Shakespeare, or whatever boon it was that his friend gave her.

He turned to look at Lou, sitting at the bar with the drink she just bought. “People are almost always better than you think they are." Almost always, anyway. Being alive for much longer than others meant that he also had much more time to make mistakes. He chuckled to himself and glanced down before facing his friend again. "Not me, though. Still the same as ever,” he winked.

"I think perhaps you've changed,” his friend said easily.

He spoke as if he truly believed it, looking at Hob with a similar gaze as he did at their last meeting. That look had lit a fire inside Hob a century ago, giving him the courage to ask to prolong their meeting at another pub. His friend had declined, but Hob never forgot that look.

And now there was even more to it, a high regard that Hob had never thought he would receive from him. He had prided himself in learning to read the most subtle of expressions from his friend, but right now, not only did his friend hold a new level of respect for him, he was letting Hob see it.

Hob felt himself take a shuddering breath, and he had to avert his eyes for a moment before speaking again. “Well, I may have learnt a bit from my mistakes, but um… doesn't seem to stop me from making them," he quipped.

His friend chuckled, holding his gaze.

Hob froze for a moment at the sound, at the sight of his friend smiling and nearly laughing.

"... I think it's you that's changed."

The mirth in his friend's eyes dissipated, and he sat up straighter. “How so?”

Hob slowly leaned forward, choosing his words carefully. "I think I know why we still meet here, century after century."

His friend tilted his chin up proudly, his eyes becoming guarded, but there was a glimpse of fear in it too. Hob wanted him to know that there was nothing to be afraid of, and he could only do that if he were close enough to say it.

"It's not because you want to see whether or not I'm ready to seek death, I don't think I'll ever seek death, by now you know that about me. So…” Hob paused for a moment, watching his friend. “I think you're here for something else,” he took a chance.

“And what might that be?” His friend’s whisper of a voice cracked with emotion, his posture tense as if he might flee at any moment or strike Hob down with his otherworldly magic.

But Hob wanted to show him that he wasn't afraid, that he would never believe that he would be harmed by this creature.

Hob's gaze softened. "Friendship. I think you're lonely."

He watched as his friend took a shallow breath.

"... You dare."

Hob glanced down and hastily tried to find the right words. "No, look, I'm not saying—"

"You…" his friend—if he could still call him that—cut him off.

Hob looked at him, afraid he had screwed everything up.

"... dare suggest one such as I might need your companionship." His friend’s voice was dangerously quiet now, eyes misting over.

Hob smiled hesitantly. "Yes. Yes I do." Would it be so terrible if they needed each other?

His friend—companion—slowly stood up. Hob followed him with his gaze, forehead creased in concern.

"Then I shall take my leave of you and prove you wrong.” There was an undertone of anger in his calm voice, and his eyes were shining with unspilled tears.

Hob stood up, frowning in worry as his mind raced trying to come up with a way to mend things.

For several heartbeats they just stood there, silently holding each other’s gaze.

A mixture of feelings was welling up inside Hob’s chest. It was tangling his mess of thoughts, but it was clear to him at this moment that he didn’t want his friend to feel alone.

He stepped forward—

His friend immediately turned away and made quick strides to the exit.

Hob nearly stumbled; the defeated feeling in him burning away from the anger that rapidly surfaced at the sight of his friend going out the door.

He followed him out onto the empty road, stopping to glare at the receding figure. "I'll tell you what, I'll be here in a hundred years' time. And if you're here then too, it'll be because we're friends," his voice broke. "No other reason. Right?" he yelled.

Hob took deep breaths, watching his friend of 500 years continue to disappear into the night without so much as a glance back. “Fuck,” he cursed quietly.

Thunder boomed overhead, and sheets of rain pelted Hob as the storm got stronger.

He muttered a few more curses before heading to the general direction of where his friend—yes his friend—had walked off to.

He had seen him disappear in a swirl of sand twice before, back in 1489 and 1689 when he curiously tried to follow after their meeting. If that fae-like creature really wanted to be out of reach, Hob would not have seen him walk all the way down that road. Now it was only a matter of catching up to him before he decided to magically disappear after all.

Hob had not expected that they might have to have an emotional conversation in the rain like in some bloody romantic play, but it was far from the most insane thing he had ever done.

“Hey!” he called out over the sound of the rain and the wind making his jacket flap wildly around him. “You know, if you had told me your name, maybe I can address you properly, Your Lordship!”

There was no answer, only winds so harsh that the rain seemed to be moving horizontally, a thousand tiny needles running at Hob. No sensible person would be out on a night like this, but Hob never claimed to be sensible. For all he knew, his friend had long since disappeared already, and here he was like a proper fool walking blindly in the middle of a storm. If he were to die out here trying to mend things between them, then so be it. He had died for lesser things.

A light shone in the distance, perhaps a lamp by a house or another tavern. In the pouring rain it was hard to be sure. Hob squinted at it.

It was unlikely that his friend went somewhere with more people, but perhaps Hob could take shelter for a while and get his bearings before thinking of what to do next. The light got closer, and above the rain and wind there was the faint sound of wheels. And hooves. Not a tavern, then. A carriage.

***

Dream was soaked to the skin as he walked briskly down the dark roads. He had neglected to take his coat and hat back at The White Horse, and his present clothes offered very little protection against the rain. None of that mattered, however, as he would be returning to his realm soon.

He could sense Hob Gadling’s thoughts, daydreams of finding him and forcing him into a confrontation. Foolish. No one forces the King of Dreams and Nightmares into anything. The human would soon learn that. He even had the audacity to follow even when Dream had already—

Dream stopped walking and furrowed his eyebrows. He could no longer sense Hob Gadling’s thoughts.

Perhaps Hob had returned to The White Horse. Dream closed his eyes and extended his reach, paying conscious attention to the thoughts of humans in the vicinity.

A sense of fear. Panic. Followed by the rumbling of carriage wheels and the splash of hooves on puddles.

“...wasn’t my fault. Damned idiot was in the middle of the road. And this storm makes driving near impossible. No one will know. No one will know…”

Dream opened his eyes, feeling his lips curl as rage rose within him.

The carriage was approaching him now, the driver’s frantic daydreams of escaping bitter on his tongue.

Dream turned and stepped in the horse’s path. He reached out to the animal’s consciousness and gave it the sweetest of dreams, urging it to move to the side of the road and fall asleep.

The driver cried out in surprise as the carriage swerved, and Dream reached out and ripped the door off its hinges, grabbing the man by the shirt and hauling him out of the vehicle.

“Where is he?” Dream growled, his teeth sharpening and his fingers turning into claws as he held the man inches off the ground.

“W-W-W-What?” The man trembled in fear and his eyes appeared to bulge out of his head. “Who are you?”

Dream had neither the time nor patience for this. He reached into the driver’s mind, barely holding his Nightmare form at bay.

Through the blinding sheets of rain, a man appeared on the road. The driver swerved in a panic, the horse’s hooves barely managing to stay upright on the slippery pavement. The side of the carriage slammed against the man with a sickening thump. The driver looked over his shoulder to see the man’s broken form on the side of the road, unmoving. He urged his horse to move faster.

An inhuman snarl rose out of Dream, and he flung the man away lest he rip him to pieces.

Dream used his sand to reach the place from the driver’s memory, not wanting to waste another moment.

He arrived at the side of the road and immediately cast his gaze down the length of it. A bolt of lightning flashed overhead, and for a moment the street was bright as day, illuminating the broken figure lying a few feet away from Dream.

Hob Gadling lay motionless, his neck bent at an angle that was unnatural for humans. A pool of blood was growing beneath his head, slowly getting washed away by the rain. His eyes were open, staring unblinking at the sky as rain fell on them. Lifeless.

“Hob!” Dream rushed to his side, kneeling to inspect if there was anything to be done.

A coldness gripped him that had nothing to do with the storm. Something squeezed in his chest and he could not seem to draw breath, vaguely aware that he should not even need to.

Tears welled up in his eyes as he reminded himself over and over again that Hob would return. He must. He had died many times before, Dream knew this. And yet, he could not stop the fear building up within him.

He had not asked Hob Gadling tonight if he still wished to live, and his frantic mind tried to recall if that was a requirement for his sister’s gift to remain in effect. But he had not asked that question last century, and yet Hob still lived. So he must continue to do so. He must. He must.

Dream carefully cradled Hob’s body against his, as if he could protect Hob from being taken by his sister if he held him in his arms. The tears were running freely down his face now, spilling from his eyes as quickly as the rain washed them away.

He clenched his jaw and willed himself to calm down. He was better than this.

He looked down at the situation once more and noticed that there was no longer any blood; the rain had washed it all away and no more was coming from Hob’s body. The bleeding had stopped.

Dream put his fingers on Hob’s neck, holding his breath in anticipation.

There.

A pulse.

Weak, but very much there. Followed by another. And another.

Hob’s eyes had rolled back in his head, and Dream closed his eyelids to protect them from the rain. The bones in his neck had not completely healed yet, but his mind had returned enough that Dream was able to reach into his subconscious and pluck out the location of where his current home was.

Dream did not let go of Hob even as he summoned his sand to transport them away from the storm.

***

It did not take long to get Hob changed into a dry set of clothes more comfortable for rest, and he looked almost entirely healed by the time Dream lay him on his bed under layers of warm blankets.

Dream could have left as soon as he had taken Hob to his home, but Hob had only died because he had followed him, and it was Dream’s responsibility to ensure that the human was in safe conditions before he left. That was all.

He stood beside the bed and looked down at Hob’s form, particularly the rise and fall of his chest indicating that he was breathing again. Hob’s face looked peaceful like this. Unlike how it was when Dream left him at The White Horse.

A twinge of guilt ached in Dream’s chest, but it only grew into a conflicted feeling that made him restless. A friendship with a human was a dangerous thing, and it might be kinder to sever his connection with Hob rather than give him false hope about what could never be.

He stared at Hob’s face, committing each detail to memory for it might be the last time he would lay eyes on it. Hob would not want to see him again, not after what had befallen him because of his search for Dream.

Hob’s eyes fluttered open.

Dream flinched and immediately turned his back, not wanting anger to be the last thing he sees in those eyes before they part. “I was just leaving.”

He took a step forward—

“Wait!” Hob’s voice stopped him. “What… What happened? I was…”

Dream stood still, keeping his back turned. He should be leaving now. Returning to his realm. But the image was still fresh in his mind, of Hob lying lifeless under the rain mere minutes after he left.

“You brought me back home.”

There was surprise and wonder in Hob’s voice, and Dream could tell that a question was coming next, one that he might not be capable of answering. He took another step to leave—

“Wait, hold on!”

Dream saw Hob’s thoughts as vividly as if they were his own, and he turned around just in time to catch Hob before he fell to the floor.

“You are not well,” he said firmly, holding Hob around the waist while Hob had his hands on his shoulders. “Your limbs have not fully recovered, and you must not go walking around in your state.” He guided Hob back to sit on the bed, his eyes scanning his body once more for any remaining injuries and fortunately finding none.

“Okay, okay. But at least let me apologise.” Hob’s grip was strong on his wrist, and his eyes never left Dream’s.

Dream furrowed his eyebrows, unsure if he had understood correctly. “Apologise?”

Hob nodded, still keeping his hold on Dream. “I never meant to offend you. I only said we were friends because, well, aren’t we?” He shook his head and laughed nervously, “God, I’m doing this all wrong. Let me try again, yeah? I was dead a few minutes ago,” he glanced up at Dream with a smile.

“Indeed, so you must rest—”

“No, listen,” Hob's grip momentarily tightened, and his voice was laced with urgency. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, it was with a calm certainty. “I said you were lonely, because I wanted to say that I understand. I'm lonely, too. But our meetings… They give me something to look forward to, you know? No matter how many of my loved ones die around me, I can always rely on seeing you again. And you… You brought my body back here, now. Even after you said you would take your leave of me. Surely that counts for something, right?” Hob's hesitant smile was sincere, and his gaze held no resentment.

“I have been cruel to you.” Dream felt something twist inside him at the admission. “How could you still want my companionship? Did you not speak with anger when I walked out of the tavern?”

Hob's eyes were gentle when he spoke. “You fed me in 1689, dined with me when no one would even look at me. You defended me from Lady Johanna when you could have escaped while I had her attention. And now you came back for me, knowing that I would still live even if you had left my body outside.”

I needed to see it for myself, Dream thought with a certainty that surprised him. I had to see you alive again.

“You were cruel for a moment there, aye. But I only spoke angrily because I was frustrated that you weren't allowing yourself the same feeling of companionship that I get in our meetings.” Hob’s thumb was stroking soothingly over Dream's wrist. “You deserve friendship. Not just from me, but I happily give it to you.”

“I…” Dream began to speak, but Hob’s thumb over his sleeve was making him wish that it was on his skin instead. “I am not good with companions. It is more natural for me to be alone.”

“Not here.” Hob’s grip tightened around his wrist, and Dream realised that Hob was holding him not out of fear that he would leave again, but because he wanted Dream to be reassured of his presence. “You will never know a lonely day again. Never here. Not while I draw breath.”

Dream stared at Hob for a long moment, and Hob returned his gaze without wavering. Breathing felt difficult once more, but somehow it wasn't the unpleasantness of what he had felt earlier.

“Morpheus,” he heard himself say, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“Morpheus,” he said more clearly. “That is my name.”

Hob's mouth parted and his eyes shone like the brightest stars. “Morpheus…” he tested the name. His tongue swept along his bottom lip as if he felt nervous to speak it aloud, and Dream's eyes tracked the movement.

Dream slowly sat down next to Hob, never breaking their gaze. “What I said before was true. I do not need your companionship.”

Hob’s face fell in surprise and confusion.

Dream gently removed his wrist from Hob’s grip, and reached up to cup Hob’s face in his hand. “But I want it. I want you. Hob Gadling.” He lightly ran his thumb over Hob's bottom lip, following the path that Hob's tongue had traced.

Hob’s pupils grew wide, and in an instant his lips were upon Dream's, soft and firm and urgent.

Dream held Hob’s face in his hands, Hob clutched at his coat. Their kiss was a dam breaking, bursting forth beyond their control and sweet with desperation. Dream bit Hob’s bottom lip, slipping his tongue in when Hob gasped against his mouth.

They pushed and pulled like tides compelled by the moon, the slide of their tongues stoking the heat growing around them.

A rumble rose from Dream’s chest, and in an instant he had pushed Hob down onto the mattress, feeling Hob's growing hardness against his own.

“Fuck,” Hob broke the kiss to gasp, throwing his head back, his fingernails digging deep into Dream’s shoulders.

“Is that what you wish, Hob Gadling?” Dream smirked, only just managing to keep his voice from wavering.

Hob looked up at him and grinned. “I already got my wish.”

“Make another.” Dream punctuated the phrase with a hard grind of his hips.

“Ah–!” Hob squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth parted and his chest heaving. “Christ…” he whispered, visibly willing himself to remain composed.

“Look at me.” Dream lightly traced a fingernail from the soft flesh behind Hob's ear down along his jawline, earning him a shiver that he must remember to draw from Hob again later.

Hob opened his eyes, and Dream nearly lost himself in the intensity of the daydreams he saw within them.

He clenched his teeth and his hips moved of their own accord to buck against Hob, drawing a groan from both of them.

“In my realm, we shall accomplish all of those and more.” This time he could not stop the tremble in his words, and he crashed his mouth on Hob’s, grinding down relentlessly and drinking in every gasp and moan that slipped from Hob’s lips.

Hob’s hands found their way to Dream's arse, pulling him down while thrusting his own hips upwards, sobs of pleasure and frustration emanating from his throat.

Dream was not doing much better; his nerves were alight and his patience was wearing thin. With a wave of his hand, he vanished all their clothing into the Dreaming.

A surprised moan escaped Hob; he was a steady presence beneath Dream, undulating and soft and warm and so very much alive.

In the far distance of Dream’s mind, he began to reconsider his earlier statement of not needing Hob Gadling’s companionship. But for now there were more urgent matters to attend to. Dream wants, and he saw that same fervour in Hob’s eyes, in Hob’s blunt nails raking across his back.

Dream wrapped a hand around their cocks, and the whine that came out of Hob sent sparks down his spine. Dream was unable to stop his own gasps and moans, and he found that he did not mind.

Hob gripped the back of his neck and pulled him down into a searing kiss. Their tongues stroked each other in time with Dream's hand around them, and it wasn't long before Hob tensed and his thighs began to tremble.

“Morpheus,” he panted, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold brought on by the storm. “Please…”

Dream brushed his lips against Hob's ear. “Hob Gadling.” He bit down on Hob's earlobe.

“Morpheus!” Hob arched his back. “Fuck–!”

Dream tightened his grip and twisted, and Hob reached his peak with a wail that was accompanied by a flash of lightning through the window.

Hob shook against him, and the feeling of his warm spend on their cocks pushed Dream over the edge, and he finished with a deep groan muffled in the crook of Hob's neck.

They held each other for a long moment, catching their breaths through the aftershocks. The storm still raged outside, but Dream hardly noticed it as he lay his hand on Hob's chest, feeling the steadfast rhythm of a heartbeat against his palm.

Then Hob’s hand was carding through his hair. “You're beautiful… Always wanted to say…” Hob's voice sounded heavy with sleep.

Dream got up just enough to smile down at Hob. “Perhaps meeting more than once in a century would be preferable.”

Hob's eyes were already closed, but he smiled. “Thought you'd never ask…” His hand slowed down and stilled on Dream's back, strong and warm and reassuring.

Dream pressed his forehead against Hob’s, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Then he closed his eyes and prepared to meet Hob in his realm.

---

Notes:

Hob's line “You will never know a lonely day again. Never here. Not while I draw breath.” is from a D&D campaign of Dimension 20, "A Court of Fey and Flowers". I haven't seen the entire campaign, but I really loved that line.

It's said by a goblin named Captain KP Hob. Which. I love that.

Here's a Tumblr post with a transcription of that entire monologue.

And here's the excerpt that I incorporated in this fic (spoilers for the campaign):

"There is one injury of yours that must be amended. You said that you felt alone. Never here. Not while I draw breath. I renounce the Goblin Court in its entirety and foreswear all oaths of loyalty to king and kin. If you are orphaned, then so am I, and you will never know a lonely day again, as long as I draw breath."

---

(Dreamling Week Masterpost)

(Masterlist)

[samsalami66]

Hello! I know it's been 54625 years but I wondered if it was still ok to ask about fics for the WIP Game?

If so can I ask about 'Snow avalanche fic'? (and also if you have some more sneak peak/headcanon/anything you feel like saying about the ancient Greece au I'm there for it too!!!)

If it's too late or you don't feel like it I understand of course!!

Anyways, hope you have a good day 😊

Hey love! It could have been a million years and I still would love to answer any and all asks concerning the WIP game, so no worries about that! :D

So the snow avalanche fic was a bit of a spur in the moment kind of idea, where one of my random thought processes just lead to a random ass fic. The only premise I had for it was "Hob lives in the mountains and sees an avalanche close to his house. He has an ex-avalanche rescue dog and decides to look for himself if there's anyone trapped under the snow, knowing how crucial time was in these scenarios. He does find someone, and that someone is Dream."

It would probably evolve into a snowstorm starting up and Hob having to take Dream in until the storm is over.

Have a little snippet of that:

"Fuck that," Hob muttered to himself, grabbing his snow gear and Shaxberd's leash. His dog was quickly bounding towards the door, his old bones filled with more energy than Hob had seen in the mutt in years. It was almost as if Shaxberd could feel the importance of their venture outside, as if all his long since buried rescue-dog instincts had been kicked into overdrive. "Come on, boy. Let's find this unlucky bastard." And with that, Hob and his dog stepped into the biting cold, wind whipping around their hair as if they were branches of a newly sprouted tree. Shaxberd ran through the snow, maneuvering the woods around their cabin with an ease Hob could only dream of. His knee ached in the cold, the pain shooting up his spine with every step Hob took towards the slope, but he fought to continue his jog, a pace he knew he should be able to keep up until they reached their destination, at least if he managed to push the pain back and bury it beneath his rising adrenaline. When Hob caught sight of the slope, fallen trees and dark rubble scattered throughout the blanket of white snow, he was breathing hard, trembling from the cold, and clenching his teeth against the throbbing pain in his knee. The area caught in the avalanche was fucking massive, big enough that a whole search and rescue team might have had trouble to skim through it all. But today's team was nothing more than an old man and his dog, and Hob prayed to God it was enough to find this person before they died beneath the snow. "Go search, boy," Hob called over the howling wind.

Now, to Ancient Greece AU. A lot of stuff happened in my personal life that eventually had me delete the words I had written for the au so far. So, sadly, I can't offer another snippet for this.

I also don't know when and how I'll be able to start writing for it again, since my situation around the fic is a bit fucked XD. Here's for hoping I'll find some energy for it soon!

Now, I will however at least share some plans and headcanons with you, since I still rather love my plans for it!

So, one plan I have for the fic is to give Morpheus and Hob (whose full name is Cobon in this fic btw) a little symbolic place to meet at every year, to spend time together, away from the agoge and prying eyes. I have decided some time ago that it would be a peach tree. They will have a whole lot of emotional moments underneath that tree, especially connected to their growing relationship. They'd also watch the peaches ripen as the month of Morpheus' goes on and on the last day they would eat one of the peaches together and say goodbye before they would have to part again for a year.

I have heaps upon heaps of plans and headcanons for this, so feel free to ask me more if you'd like!

Have a good day love :D

[secondjulia]

Hob Gadling's Second Execution

WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE

Hob had thought himself beyond any feeling, let alone one so great as terror. But when the strange men locked chains over his wrists and dragged him from his once-grand home, fear flooded back into him as fresh as when he’d first faced a charging army, sword trembling in his young hands.

He had no sword now.

Long after his years of fighting for his life in the blood and muck, he’d become something different. A soft, arrogant man, easily broken. Now he was unarmed, bound, and without his fellows to fight by his side. 

Only hostile faces surrounded him now. Lining the path, they watched the witch hunters drag him from his dark, neglected home. Hob looked into the eyes of his neighbors, some of whom he hadn’t seen for over a decade, but he saw no one who would fight by his side now. All that reflected back at him was shock and fear. Several crossed themselves. 

Apparently, years of neglect had still not aged his face. His beautiful stranger had not just made him undying, but forever young. Frozen as the fighter in his prime. Even though the fight had long left him.

“Please,” Hob begged uselessly, as if he’d completely forgotten that he’d already survived one execution. He had not, but the stubborn instinct of fear was too strong. Once upon a time, Hob had rushed into battle, laughing in the face of stupid Death. But without his sword and his fellows and a single fighting chance, he had no hope but to bow to the force of terror. Hob was no martyr, going defiantly to his death. He dug his heels in and twisted in the hands that had gripped his upper arms painfully, but the witch hunter just thrust him forward. “Please!” 

Unbelievably, inexcusable, Hob didn’t want to die.

Hatred for himself bubbled up. What sort of monster could want to live after losing a son, a wife, a barely-born babe? Hob had seen many give up after such losses. Those who kept on usually had someone to care for. But Hob had no one. He had only his own rotten skin to care for, little though he might deserve it.

“Please. Oh my dear lord,” he prayed, though he knew not whether his lord’s ears were near. “Save me!”

“Save your breath, witch!” one of the hunters ordered, slamming hard knuckles into the back of Hob’s head. “Our lord despises those who green gown Satan!”

But he wasn’t despised! He couldn’t be! Not by his lord! Yes, Hob had clearly displeased him in some way the last time they’d met. All Hob wealth and success, the fine wine and fine feast laid out for his lord had not been enough to tempt him away from that fool Shaxberd. But his stranger had left abruptly before and yet still returned one hundred years later. He had not broken their bargain.

In 1689, Hob would see his beautiful stranger again. He had to believe it. 

“Oh my pretty lord, I will make it to you,” Hob prayed. “I swear I will meet you again.”

The witch hunter threw Hob to his knees beside the river, growling in his ear. “You’ll meet your pretty demon lord tonight, witch!”

Oh, how Hob wished it were true!

#

Dream had watched many communities tear themselves apart. He knew the nightmares that had run rampant in this era, try as he might to contain them or turn them to something productive. There were many things to fear in this miserable world, bacteria and viruses that killed by the millions, the greed and arrogance of rulers that carved war into continents, and daily cruelties that bled people of their will to live, the deprivation of a harsh world. But try as he might to illuminate the real nightmares in the minds of humankind, they yet failed to ask the right questions, to ferret out the real sources of their suffering. In this part of the world, in this era, many still did not see the true dangers. 

Dream understood the fears of the witch hunters and the hostile faces in the crowd. He knew their worst nightmares and the darkest stories they concocted in their hearts. But he had also felt the fears of their victims, and his heart twisted to see Hob Gadling dragged from his home weeping. 

“Why are you here?” Death’s soft voice came from beside Dream.

He turned to her, fear striking at his heart. “Why are you here?” 

She smiled gently. “There is much work to do in this place.”

Dream turned back to Hob Gadling who was now praying at the river’s edge. He looked more wretched now than he had been even facing certain execution under the axe. The swimming of a witch was, after all, mainly a test and not an execution, though it could often turn out that way. A victim who sank could be hauled back and declared innocent — if the witch hunters did not wait too long. A victim who floated could be sent to the pyre.

Tears streamed down Hob’s face. He hung his head and murmured to the mud under his hands and knees. The witch hunters were proclaiming his imagined crimes while the townsfolk ogled. 

“Dream,” Death said. “You do not need to be here.”

Dream shot her a scathing look. “You think I fear these petty human cruelties? That I cannot bear the horrors of a place which no sane creature could wish to call home?”

“No,” Death said simply.

Dream looked away from her too-knowing glance and back at Hob. “I must bear witness. We had a wager.”

“It wasn’t really a wager. We didn’t actually bet anything. Well,” she paused, and Dream cast her a wary sidelong glance. “I suppose we bet him in a way. Though it’s a bit of a reverse gamble, isn’t it? If you are right, then I will get the pleasure of Hob Gadling’s company. But if I am right, then you get it.”

Dream scoffed. “Yes, such pleasurable company I have always yearned for,” he said, voice low with dry sarcasm. “A bandit, a pompous nobleman, and a praying wretch.”

“Listen to him, Dream.”

#

Mud squelched under Hob’s fists as his lungs gasped in great buckets of air, fearing the moment the flow would stop. 

“Merciful lord who has granted me life, I will tell you of the wrongs of good people and the cruelties of bad ones,” Hob prayed underneath the words of the witch hunters and the gasps and the jeers from the crowd, “and of the mistakes I’ve made and all the beautiful things I’ve lost. In our tavern of the White Horse, let us meet again, where everything I have is yours. Yours is every experience, every word from my lips, my beautiful stranger…”

His words faltered as he realized that the witch hunter’s voice had gone quiet. He was finished with the long recitation of the really quite fantastical things Hob was supposed to have done with the devil and his minions. Heavy steps closed in behind him.

Eleanor’s face smiled at Hob as vice-like grips closed once more on his arms. Little Robyn’s laugh. The babe’s weak cries, before they’d fallen silent forever.

But another face shone brighter. Pale eyes and smirking lips in a smokey tavern. His beautiful stranger’s face was again the sight that accompanied him to the end. Or, what should have been the end.

Hob truly was a monster. He was not a decent man who would at least go to Death with open arms, eager to see those who had passed on before him. He would not see his Eleanor. He wouldn’t see Robyn. He wouldn’t see the unnamed babe that had died in Eleanor’s arms. Because Hob still wanted to live.

“Forgive me, my lord. I am not worthy. I am not worthy,” but even as he repeated the words, chanting them like a monk as if trying to embed their meaning into his very soul and break the hold of his own greed for life, Hob still wanted to live. “I am not worthy.”

“Confessing already, devil-swiver?” the mean voice in his ear growled. The last words he heard before he was thrust into the cold river.

#

For a long moment, Dream could not speak. It was all he could do not to moan aloud in pain. Hob did not have his name, but still he invoked Dream as a stranger, as — for all Hob knew, despite Dream’s opaque answers — some kind of demon, at the very least an unknown creature who had shown Hob very little kindness. Indeed, whose interference had lead Hob to this wretched existence.

Hob had disappeared under the current. 

Now that he was truly paying attention, Dream could see the flickers of his own face in Hob’s daydreams, the visions that danced across the darkness of Hob’s mind as his eyes squeezed shut against the cold water. Even as the pain of suffocation invaded his mind, Hob was in the White Horse tavern, looking up at Dream, smiling, eyes glinting. 

“He cannot… he cannot wish to stay in this world,” Dream said in a somewhat stifled voice. “With these people. This… this kind of life. This whole place is a torment.”

Death squeezed his arm. 

As Hob fought against the water battering his senses, his dreams shifted beyond memory. In his mind, Dream’s hands reached out over the wooden table and drew Hob to his feet. The dream was so strong that Dream could feel the warm, calloused hands of the soldier on his own. He felt the rough beard against his neck. His arms moved as if to encircle Hob’s warm body, strong muscles flexing under his hands as they embraced. Warm lips met his jaw.

Sharp pains assaulted Hob’s nose and throat, and he twisted in Dream’s arm, crying out and thrashing against the assault of water.

Dream hugged himself and nearly fell to his knees.

“I’ve got to go,” Death said quietly.

“My sister!” Dream cried out, sorrow and desperation bursting through his better judgement. It was Hob’s choice. It had always been Hob’s choice. Dream had no right, no reason to beg for more—

“I’m needed elsewhere,” Death said. “But, Dream? You’re right. There is enough torment in this world. You don’t need to add your own. Take care of yourself, little brother.”

Dream kept his eyes on the river as Death disappeared.

#

Hob came back to consciousness in darkness and pain. Water pressed down on him, in him. It burned in his chest and his throat and his nose. His throat spasmed. His head pounded. He felt like he was crying, but the river swallowed his tears. 

Please. I don’t want to die. Please, my lord!

He was still bound, his head too fuzzy and desperate to save himself. To do anything but thrash against the river. After several torturous moments, he drowned again.

#

The townsfolk did not pull that Gadling out of the river when he failed to surface.

For several long minutes they watched the river flow past, it’s deep movements unbroken. Sinking should have meant the man was innocent, but many of the witnesses found this very hard to believe — especially those who had known him forty years ago and had looked upon his face utterly unchanged. 

It was better this way. If he were, by some distant chance, innocent, then the lord had already taken him to his eternal reward. But more than likely, as several murmured to each other, the lord had just been impatient. Perhaps their Heavenly Father had not wished to wait for them to build a pyre and do all that pesky paperwork for a proper execution. Maybe that Gadling’s devilish crimes had been so egregious, so obvious that He demanded judgement and punishment at once, reaching out through the hand of the river to take justice himself.

Gadling had sounded very guilty. They’d all heard him beg for forgiveness. And even he had said he was not worthy at the end. Well, it looked like the lord had decided so, too.

After a while, the witch hunters looked awkwardly at each other. One scribbled something in his book, and then they quietly made themselves scarce. The townsfolk lurked a little longer, gawking at the river and gossiping, but then they melted back into the their homes and their shops and their fields. Life went on.

The lord had taken Hob Gadling in the river; let the lord decide what to do with him now. 

#

When Dream pulled Hob from the river and into a sheltered grove of willows, Hob’s body was entirely limp. Dream unbound Hob’s hands, cleared the water from his lungs and repaired the damaged tissue. Hob’s body would have repaired itself on its own, but Dream did not want to think of Hob writhing in pain through the healing process. He brushed Hob’s hair back from his face. 

When Hob began to stir, Dream backed away. A part of him wished to stay, to take this man into his arms and be the dreams that Hob had held close in his darkest moments. 

But that was not their bargain. 

Dream could not assume that the desperate creations of Hob’s mind at the edge of Death were the true desires of his heart. And Endless love had never served mortals well. And Hob, well… Hob may not be mortal, but he was human. He wished to live because he love life, not because he loved Dream. He had to be left to live his life.

And, on top of that, it would do Hob no good to be seen with a stranger in these suspicious times.

So, assured that Hob was hale and whole, Dream left.

#

Hob dreamed of a pair of cool, pale hands ministering to him in his wretched state. And when he woke, their loss was a pain worse than drowning. Worse than the axe. Though he realized quickly this time that he was indeed still alive, Hob felt no joy on waking. He felt bereft and lost. 

For a long time he just stared up at the sky between the willow leaves trying to gather the strength to stand. Hob wanted to live. And that would mean that, sooner or later, he’d have to get back to the business of actually living. 

Eventually, Hob pushed himself up. He walked with his shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around himself. He turned his back on the town he’d called home for forty years, the home of his murderers, and walked away from his Death.

~The End~

(Sequel to Hob Gadling's First Execution. Gifs from The Whale — 2013 NOT 2022!)

[instantduckninja]

My brain is fundamentally broken and made possibly the worst “random song is now a ship song” assignment I’ve every made. Since I now can’t shake this thought, I’m make you all suffer with me.

It’s 2021 and Hob’s students come to class and are HORRIFIED he has not listened to the new Taylor Swift album, insisting it is the most important and influential piece of art of the year. Hob, possibly thinking about his Stranger and it being his job to report on all the major innovations of humanity in the current decade, agrees they can play him a few of the songs.

Things are going fine until they play “I Bet You Think About Me”. Hob holds it together in class, but cut to a few hours later. Hob is totally plastered, belting along for the tenth time because lines like

“3 a.m. and I'm still awake, I'll bet you're just fine

Fast asleep in your city that's better than mine

And the girl in your bed has a fine pedigree

And I'll bet your friends tell you she's better than me”

Bring him right back to 1589 and his Stranger walking off with that hack Shaxberd and

“Mr. Superior-Thinkin'

Do you have all the space that you need?

I don't have to be your shrink to know that you'll never be happy

And I bet you think about me”

Puts him right on the street, alone in the rain in 1889.

Bonus points if, even after they get back together the song gets Hob in his feels. So, one night a baffled Dream has to deal with a (probably tipsy) Hob asking Dream he thought Hob was good enough even if he “grew up on a farm, no it wasn’t a mansion, just living room dancing and kitchen table bills”. He points out that Hob’s childhood home had no living room because it was all one room, puts him to bed, and then promptly invades the dreams of this music artist to inspire her to write a new album so different songs will be played on the radio.

[justnerdystuffs]

So. Imagine post reunion Hob is in the Dreaming library being shown around by Dream. We've been there, right? And thennnnnn. They run into the famous inhabitant of the Dreaming, and contributor to the library, William Shaxberd.

And Hob, who spent CENTURIES trying to get Dream's attention, approval, a measure of affection, hell even just his NAME. Hob, who was stood up in 1589 for this prick who clearly got some favour that Hob didn't deserve....

Who thought he was over his grudge against Shaxberd, he truly did, the man was long dead, we aren't jealous of the dead, turns to Dream, looks him in the eyes and just asks.

'Et tu, brute?'

[best-wishes]

Don’t Look Back Part 4: Third Iteration

Beware, it’s part 4, to find the beginning of the story, it’s here

CW: Major Character Death, kidnapping, Canon typical violence

When Hob woke up in 1589 once again, he was not surprised. He had let everything go in the fire, knowing he would either wake up for good, or wake up at the White Horse.

This time, Hob was determined to understand exactly what was happening to him, why he was trapped in this loop. And for this, he had to find the being responsible for his immortality.

Hob hastily dressed up. The last known location of his mysterious patron was with Will Shaxberd, so he had to start here. With a bit of luck, the guy was still there. Otherwise, maybe he and the wannabe playwright could share notes.

He had overheard, he thought, the number of the room Shaxberd was staying in, it was, however, many decades ago, and Hob would not have been able to recall it to save his life. He had to resort to asking one of the maids in the corridor to point him the right door.

Hob knocked loudly. When he had no answer, he banged with more force, and was greeted by a groan and a spell of curses.

After a long minute, the door opened. A dishevelled Will Shaxberd was looking at Hob with eyes that were part incredulous, part scandalised.

"What, pray tell, have I ever done to you to deserve being awakened so loudly?"

"I’d say you spent last night seducing my guest with your talk of poetry, but I am not here to make you pay in anyway. I wanted to inquire whether you knew of his whereabouts?"

"What? Why?"

"Because I am stuck in a difficult situation that I assume is of his making."

"Well then, good luck, because I do not think his kind ever goes back on their deals."

"His kind?"

Will seemed to hesitate, so Hob added.

"You know what, I propose you take some time to prepare yourself and then meet me downstairs for a meal. You’re my guest. This way we can share notes on our mysterious patron."

Hob had almost thought he had failed to convince Shaxberd and that the man had decided to run in fear of Hob’s strange behaviour, but the guy showed up as Hob was finishing his first serving. Most of the breakfast was, as usual, what remained for the feast he had arranged for the day before. It meant that it likely surpassed anything Will had sampled in his life.

"So, what did you talk about when he came to you last evening?" Hob asked after Will started eating.

"You first. You seem to know a lot more about me than I do about you. I do not even know your name."

"Sir Robert Gadlen."

"So, Sir Gadlen, you said the mysterious man was your guest. Am I correct in assuming that this was a planned meeting?"

"Yes, it was planned, we had agreed to meet in this tavern, on the 7th of June 1589."

As Hob did not elaborate, Will pressed on.

"Tell me more, have you met before? What is his name? Do you have a deal with him, and what is it? If you want to share notes, as you claimed, you need to tell me without me needing to pull out your teeth."

Hob sighed.

"You are right. I have a longstanding agreement with him, if one could say. We have agreed to meet in this tavern, once every century."

Will’s eyebrows rose so high Hob feared they would leave his brow entirely.

"Yesterday was our third meeting. We struck our deal on the 7th of June 1389, then met again on the same day in 1489, and then yesterday."

"Immortality. It’s your deal, he made you properly immortal."

"Yes, and no. It’s more complicated, and that’s very much why I’d like us to talk. But I have been alive for two hundred and thirty-five years, or for…" Hob paused to calculate "…nearly three hundred, depending on how you count."

"I have to say, it is hard to believe. If I had not met him last night, I would not believe you at all. Yet, he offered me the same kind of gift, though in a different form. Immortality. Mine is to be the immortality of poets, the one of Homer, the gift to write stories that will spur the dreams of men for the centuries to come."

One would have to be a poet to ever wish for this brand of immortality instead of enjoying a proper endless life. Hob did not understand, nor did he wish to. Will Shaxberd was an idiot.

"Our deal was this one: he would grant me inspiration for every play, song or poem that I wish to write, and he would ensure they are not forgotten through the ages. He said his ex-wife made the same deal with Homer himself. In exchange, my first and my last plays have to be stories of his choosing."

It made sense, a frightening amount of sense. Hob did not know what kind of being his patron was, a god, a Fae, or something else entirely, but he was apparently someone who dealt with immortality and stories. Both Will and Hob had received a brand of eternal life. Hob was never remembered, but always present, while Will would be forever celebrated, but mostly absent. And in exchange, they had been asked for stories, Hob for the authentic experience of an ordinary human through the ages, Will, for plays that all would know and re-enact.

"And it works. Already, in one night, I have written more verses that I find worthy than ever before in my existence. Ideas are buzzing and popping into my mind, like bubbles coming up to the surface. Truly, if I had not felt it so powerfully, I would not believe your claim of eternal life."

"So, after you made your deal, he left?" Hob asked.

"Yes. He said he would come back to me at a later date to provide his instructions for the first play."

This was good news, one more chance for Hob to find his patron before 1689.

Hob’s hope must have shown on his face, because Will asked him:

"Why are you looking for him? You have not told me what you are looking for, or what you could be expecting of me."

Hob took a deep breath, and started narrating his problem, how he had died in 1621, then come back in time to 1589 again, only to die earlier in 1609 and be back to 1589. How he had tried to change everything, and died again even earlier in 1595.

"You see, it is my fourth time living the 8th of June 1589. And I have no idea if any of my previous lives was even real. They certainly felt real, but how am I to know, since no one ever remembers them but me?”

The playwright nodded. Hob continued.

"I want to find him to ask him what the hell this is about. What is real? Am I doing something wrong? What does he want from me?"

"I can see where you are, but I fail to see how I could help."

"You are my only link to him. He made a bargain with you, similar to the one he made with me. But you are not immortal. He is bound to be back into your life before 1689. Maybe I can catch him, ask him what is happening. I would ask you to consider another bargain, with me.

"I would like you to promise that whenever he comes back to you, you will reach me as soon as possible by sending someone, an errant boy or girl, to me. I will remain close by so that I can intercept him swiftly. And in exchange, I can sponsor your career. What do you say?"

 ---

Will accepted, of course, the deal was way better for him than it was for Hob. They ironed the details, so that Hob would be close by whenever their patron would appear, including Hob accompanying Will when his troupe travelled.

It was only after, once Hob was back to his own room in the Inn, that he truly realised what his deal with Will Shakespeare meant.

He was not going back home.

He had not even thought it through before deciding it, but when the realisation hit him, he knew there could be no other choice. He could not do it again, not knowing what would inevitably happen. He did not have the strength of mind to go back, and enjoy Eleanor’s and Robyn’s presence in his life, knowing that seven years from now, he would have to lose it all over again.

Were he to go back home right now, and see Eleanor’s young face again, he would break there and then.

Better not to go. Maybe, if Hob was absent from her life, she and Robyn would be spared.

Hands trembling, he went to the cabinet where the liquor was stored, and served himself a generous cup of brandy. He emptied it in one go. The spirit burnt his throat and he nearly coughed at the assault.

Carefully, he put the stopper back, and put the bottle back into storage.

He knew the danger. He had been trapped by it, during his first life, after Robyn’s death. An endless cycle of drunkenness and hangover, that brought relief only to take it back by the next morning. He could not risk falling to it again, not when he had a clear goal in mind.

---

Retrospectively, one thing Hob should have expected was that Eleanor would never let him go without a fight. Or rather, without a hunt.

It had started with a poster on the outer wall of the White Horse. Hob was coming back to the Inn for the evening. The weather was lovely, the streets basked in the slowly sinking sun. The portrait was illuminated by a single orange ray, making it look like one of the golden idols of Constantinople.

Hob found himself face to face with himself. The likeliness of the drawing was amazing. Eleanor’s talent for sketches was honed by years of practice, most of them using Hob as a model. Eleanor drew her husband all the time. Hob loved it. Maybe it made him a vain man, but he could never grow tired of the way she would look at him when she was trying to capture his image on canvas.

The drawing was a simple inked sketch, on a leaf that had been covered in wax to protect it from humidity. A note asked for information on Sir Robert Gadlen, with a reward from his wife. Icy cold pooled in his belly.

Hob checked around him for a moment where no one would notice him, and, with trembling hands, ripped the piece from the wall. He rolled it up and hid it in his pocket. Swiftly, heart beating fast in his chest, he slipped through the main room of the White Horse to the stairs that led to his rented room.

Something had crystallised in Hob’s heart, the moment he had seen Eleanor’s sketch. Until now, he had had no plans, except for keeping Will Shakespeare close by to try and find his stranger. He had, purposefully, refused to consider his future this time. He had shied from what he knew, deep down.

He was not going back home. Not this time.

Sitting on his bed, fearing his leg would stop supporting him the moment he started thinking about it, he let out the piece of paper he had ripped from the wall.

He would recognise the style among a thousand. The way she always hesitated with the shadows around his nose. She used to swear at Hob’s nose, during her drawing sessions. Hob grazed the line of the drawing’s nose with his fingers. She would lovingly caress it with the tips of her fingers, when he held her in his embrace, feeling the shape to better capture its image next time.

He wanted nothing more than to go back, and let her touch him like that again. He wanted nothing less than having to pass the tips of his fingers over her face to close her eyes once again.

He let a deep breath out of his lungs.

He could not, would not go home. Twice already, he had tried in vain to change Eleanor’s fate, and twice he failed. Hob was the only one whose fate changed, the one around whom everything revolved. If he was not there, if he was absent from Eleanor and Robyn’s life, maybe they would be spared? 

Was he really believing that his absence could avert their fate? Or was he only lying to himself because he could not muster the courage to face them once again, knowing full well how soon he would lose them? 

His musings were interrupted by the voice of the innkeeper, coming up from downstairs.

"Yes, Sir Gadlen has been residing here for the last fortnight. I can show you in, Sir."

Hob startled, instantly on his feet, century-old reflexes taking over. He had been a wanted man for long enough that his feet knew their way without his brain’s input.

Hob grabbed his bag, stuffing the drawing into one of the outer pockets. He opened the window onto the courtyard, sat on the edge and, grabbing the window sill with both hands, let himself fall toward the courtyard. The fall was not very high, and he could absorb the shock rolling onto the soft ground.

He was covered in dust. Good. He brought his brown stained hands to his face, and rubbed dirt on his brow and cheeks. The filthier he looked, the less likely to be recognised as Sir Gadlen.

From the bottom of the courtyard, he heard the innkeeper astonished gasp as he entered the abandoned room.

Hob opened the small door to the back alley. He knew the maids did not care much for locking it up in the evening, as they needed to go back and forth too many times during the night’s service.

Closing the door behind him, Hob walked faster in the darkening alley. He needed to join a crowded street, to lose any one tailing him. Already, he heard the clamour of the innkeeper, trying to find his mysteriously disappeared knight.

Hob had not yet paid this week’s dues, the man was probably very motivated not to lose him.

The sun was setting when Hob finally stopped walking, hopping from one busy street to the next. He had no plan on what to do next. He ended up in a dingy tavern, much less standing than the White Horse, but not the worse he had visited. It was not the place one would expect to find Sir Robert Gadlen.

Hob booked a room, and immediately asked for some hot water to be brought up so he could wash up a bit before supper. The dirt on his face had mixed with the sweat of his frantic escape from the White Horse, to make him quite the disgusting look.

He would have to find a barber, first thing in the morning. Short hair and a clean-shaved face would go a long way to make him look nothing like Robert Gadlen.

Hob ate his supper in a sort of stupor. By the time he finished his stew, it was getting tepid. He could not even remember the flavour of the broth after cleaning his plate. The flight had been such a rush, he had had no time to process his decision, or what it implied.

He was not going back home.

Meaning that if he was not sent back once more the next time he died, he would never see Eleanor or Robyn again. It seemed impossible. It seemed inevitable.

Hob could not go back, not without breaking entirely, he knew it. He could not, not without any hope of saving either of them. His only remaining hope was that the curse was attached to Hob himself. That if he was not in their life, then they would not need to die on their appointed day.

That night, Hob dreamt of the fire again. He was lost in the smoke, calling Eleanor’s name and Robyn’s, coughing after each cry. His eyes were blinking furiously from the heavy smoke, blinding him. The smoke was filling his lungs, and he could not breathe. His legs failed him, and he fell on the ground. Eight-year-old Robyn was sitting next to him.

"Hello Father." He said with a cold voice.

Hob tried to answer, only to be stopped by another coughing fit.

"You abandoned me, did you know? You went to save mum from the fire, and then you decided not to come back. I became an orphan that day. Did you know what would become of me? How I would die in a gutter after a short life of hardship and abuse, just because you could not come back to look after me? How does it feel, being so selfish?"

The tears in Hob’s eyes were not only because of the fumes.

"Do you even consider us like human beings, Father? Or are we only decor in the play that is your life, ceasing to exist as soon as you leave the stage? Did you think I would not survive you, and live on my own?"

Robyn stood up, and looked down on Hob’s dying body on the ground.

"You abandoned me, like I was not even real. I hope you suffer for a long time in this personal hell of yours, Father. Goodbye."

 ---

"My Lord?" Lucienne interrupted Dream's reading.

Dream looked up from his notes. He had not noticed her arriving, so engrossed in his reading. So far, the search for Destruction was going nowhere. Dream needed to understand what was destroying the world again and again, and without Destruction to guide him, he was in a dead end.

"If I can borrow a minute of you time? You left me a note asking me to warn you when William Shakespeare would finish writing the play you commissioned."

Lucienne presented him with a brand-new book.

"It just arrived. I checked, this is the final version."

Dream contemplated the inkpot on the desk in front of it. It was very tempting to throw it out on the next window. The sound of broken glass would be satisfying, for one. The vacuity of the universe would be revealed. Lucienne would be furious, but she would forget about it with the next reset of the universe anyway.

The loop had started again when Dream had been absorbed in his quest. He had missed the start again. Lucienne was clueless once more.

Dream felt lonely. It was a bit surprising, because he didn't usually care much for company. He missed being able to trust Lucienne with his problems. He missed discussing literature with Fiddler's Green. He missed people who would remember him, and what he had told them last time he had seen them.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Dream stood up from his chair, sending his notes flying around. He was going to find the source of this disturbance. He had all the time in the world, after all. And then, when he found it, he would obliterate it.

 ---

The first thing Hob did, the next morning, was to find a barbershop. In his experience, and he had been running from the authorities often enough during his first century of life, a good haircut and a clean shaved face made a long way toward being unrecognisable. Together with a change in style, it was enough for Sir Gadlen to disappear and Hob Gadling to take his place.

At least, it worked well enough on Will Shakespeare, when Hob went knocking on his door at the end of the afternoon.

A storm had been brewing all day long, mirroring Hob’s inner turmoil. A heavy atmosphere had settled over London, cloud lazily accumulating over the streets until it was nearly dark in the middle of the summer afternoon. The heat was made unbearable by the humidity. If Hob’s hair had not been cut short enough to stand straight on his head, it would have been curling now.

It finally broke just as Hob was making his way to Will Shakespeare’s current residence. By the time he was knocking at the door, he was dripping with water. He actually had to hit the door as hard as he could so that the sound would be heard over the sound of the rain.

"Who…?" Will started asking as he opened the door. He stopped. "Sir Gadlen? Is that you?"

"Yes, and no. Call me Hob for now if you please."

"Hob?"

Will was looking at him with doubt, as if expecting a joke.

"May I enter? It is a bit wet, if you have not noticed."

Will opened the door wider, and stepped out of the way so that Hob could pass the threshold.

He stood there, not wanting to drip everywhere. Soon, there was a puddle at his feet.

Will closed the door, dampening the sound of rain. He left and came back a minute later with a towel for Hob to dry himself. Hob had removed his boots in the meantime, and his socks. Every bit of him was drenched. He was fortunate the temperature was warm enough that he did not feel particularly cold.

"What may I do for your service, Sir Gadlen?" Will asked once Hob was dry enough.

"Please, Hob for now. I’m…having a break from being Sir Gadlen for now."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean my wife is looking for me, and I do not want her to find me."

The playwright was looking at Hob with a hint of disapproval.

"Do you mean to tell me you are running away from your wife and child, Sir Gadlen? Not very worthy of knighthood."

"I’m not running away from them! I’m trying to save them." Hob protested.

Will raised an eyebrow.

"Are you? By abandoning them?"

"If I go back, I know exactly how it ends. I have lived through it three times already. She dies in seven years, and my son dies in nineteen. Nothing that I can do could stop it. I tried changing everything, on my last life with them. We moved to France, settled in Paris. We knew no one, our lives could not be more different. She still died exactly as before."

Hob stops, the hurt of this failure still raw enough to clench his throat.

"I am the only thing that was the same in every life they lived. I am the one who was cursed, along with eternal life. Cursed never to be able to settle and enjoy a long and peaceful life. I am the one cursing them, with my love. Maybe…Maybe if I am not there, if I keep far enough from their lives, they can escape fate."

Will was not saying anything. Hob did not know whether it was a good thing.

"I have to believe this, because if I do not, I have no hope left."

Will stood up and went to a cabinet in the corner of the room. He came back with two tumblers and a bottle of amber liquid Hob guessed was brandy. He poured two generous glasses, and handed one to Hob, before settling again into his chair.

Hob was tempted to swallow it all in one go. He did not. He remembered using alcohol as a clutch, during his first life. How easy it was to fall into the habit, to drink for the stupor and forgetfulness.

Instead, he sipped the brandy. It was not up to par with the ones Sir Gadlen had at home, but it was still pretty good for Hob Gadling’s experience.

Silence stretched for a long time. Will was the first to break it.

"How may I be of help?"

"I need a new identity. Sir Gadlen needs to disappear. I wanted to ask if you could hire me, for the menial work you need for the plays. When you are my age, you know how to do a little bit of everything. I can’t act, obviously, but I can build, work wood, sew, things like that."

Will nodded.

"This is not entirely my decision, but I shall plead your case."

"Thank you, Will."

The silence resumed. Hob had finished his drink and had no intention of having another. He was contemplating the bottom of the glass, as if he could find answers there. He felt as empty as the container.

"Sir…Hob?" Will hesitated.

Hob sent him a questioning look.

"I suppose you cannot tell me about the future?"

Hob stopped for a moment.

"I do not see why not," he answered, bitter. "After all, I have tried to change the future many times before. It never made the smallest difference, one way or the other. My last wife was in the know, I had told her about my previous lives. It did not help her escape her fate. So, why the hell not? Ask away, I shall answer whatever I am able to."

"Is it true, what *he* promised me? That my plays would be remembered after I die, along the centuries?"

"I cannot tell you about centuries, the farther I’ve lived are the 1620s. But yes, it is true. In every life I have lived, you are considered the greatest playwright Britain has ever known."

The man let a sigh out, dazed.

"I don’t know what to say."

"I am not sure there is anything to say. Do not let it go to your head, you’re not there yet."

 ---

"Hob! Hob, wake up!"

Hob groaned. It was Will Shakespeare, pounding on his door in the middle of the night.

"Whaddoyouwan?" he mumbled in response.

"Hob, open up!"

Hob turned around under his covers. The temperature in his bedroom was frigid, the fire’s embers barely giving any heat. He did not want to leave the warmth, but he knew he would have to, if he wanted to revive the fire and avoid waking up in the morning in a room where there was frost on the inside.

"I’m coming, stop making noise." He grunted.

Covering himself the best he could, he went to open the door to the excited playwright. Will entered immediately, closing behind himself. Hob set himself to revive the fire so that they could both talk without freezing. Discussing with Will Shakespeare was not how he had thought he would spend his time between sleeps. but it was not unwelcome.

For two years now, Hob had been working alongside the man, not as an actor, as he could not take the risk of being seen and recognised. Eleanor had desisted with the main chase for her disappeared husband, but there were still portraits of him in circulation, offering a reward for information about Sir Robert Gadlen.

Instead, Hob was tasked with every job that was hidden from the public, from building decor to mending costumes… It was not an unpleasant life, and most importantly, it was different enough from the repeated lives of Robert Gadlen that he would not be reminded too often of everything that he had lost.

Eleanor and Robyn were still often at the forefront of his mind, and he missed them immensely. Every time, it only strengthened his resolve to stay away. It was the sacrifice he was doing for them. He left them to protect them from his curse, in the hope that fate, so intent on striking Hob, would spare them if he did not approach them.

The embers turned into timid flames, and he stroked them again until the fire was roaring. Will had settled himself in one of the armchairs in front of the hearth, Hob joined him on the other.

"So, what was so urgent that you had to rouse me before my time?" He asked.

"He has come back to visit me tonight. Our mysterious patron."

"Where? Take me to him?" Hob immediately jumped to his feet. Why wouldn’t the fool begin with the important news?

"Calm down, Hob. He visited me in a dream."

Hob deflated.

"I was sleeping, and he was there. We were in a throne room, grander than I have ever seen. The poetry that I could write, describing that room alone…"

Hob interrupted him.

"Please do not. To the point."

He knew Will, the man would never get to the point in less than an hour if he was left to his own devices.

"Right. He was there, marble white skin in a dark toga, looking at me with two star-filled eyes. He told me about the first play he wanted me to write for him. Except, instead of telling me using words, he inundated my mind with images, sounds and feelings, and something more than I could not put into words even if I could live as long as you do."

"Can you at least tell me what the play should be about?"

"He wanted the play to celebrate the departure of the Fae from this plane, whatever that could mean. He said we would perform in front of the real Queen Titania and King Auberon."

"You mean Queen Titania is real?"

"Why would she not? You’re an immortal man, made so by an immortal entity that can visit my dreams and inspire creation."

Will was right, it was not more absurd. It gave Hob a lead on whoever their mysterious patron was, and how Hob could find him. After all, it was never difficult to find the fair people in England, though most would try to avoid them. Hob had certainly made his best to steer clear from them until now. It would have to change.

The performance was his chance. A planned rendezvous with his mysterious patron, where he could confront him about being trapped in the 16th century. All he had to do was not to lose Will Shakespeare until then.

 ---

Hob swore when he reached the top of the hill. From where he was standing, he could see that the play had already started. The troupe was playing in the middle of the meadow, the audience installed on the gentle slope of the hill where the giant man had always been present. The Man of Wilmington was sitting.

Hob did not even stop to think about how absurd it was. The audience of the play was obviously not ordinary, comprising creature of all kinds of shapes and colours. Their clothing was dyed in colours that could not strictly be described with words, and their shape seemed not quite comprehensible by the human mind, like distorted reflections on the water.

It was Thomas’ fault if Hob was late for the only meeting he could expect with his patron for the next century. Two nights ago, the idiot had gone too far from camp to piss, and broke his leg in a muddy ditch when he was traipsing in the dark. At dawn, when the crew had noticed him missing, Hob had volunteered to find him, thinking he’d just gotten lost.

He had found the guy, half sobbing, half sleeping, covered in mud. It had only taken one look at the unnatural angle his leg made to see that the leg was broken. Moving the man only slightly had him howling in pain.

By the time Hob could drag Thomas from the bottom of the slippery slope, and carry him back to camp, it was well past noon, and the whole troupe had already gone, leaving only a donkey for them both.

Thomas had needed a makeshift splint, and rest after spending the whole night terrified and suffering in the dark. Hob let him under a thick blanket and went to gather suitable pieces of wood for the splint and a crutch.

It was the middle of the afternoon when they finally could get back on the road, Thomas on the donkey and Hob walking.

Hob had pushed Thomas and the donkey as much as he dared, which was not at all how much he wished he could have. Will had revealed their mysterious patron had given him a rendezvous for midsummer at Wilmington. Hob had to be there to confront him.

"The play has begun without us!" Thomas exclaimed.

"It’s not as if you could play," Hob remarked.

"No, but you should, Hobyn Goodfellow. Look, they have not finished the first Act, you can still be on time." Thomas said.

He was right, but there was no way Hob could get there in time, not with a donkey and a wounded man to manage. What he thought must have shown on his face, because Thomas added: "Go, what are you waiting for? Leave me here, I can manage the end of the road."

"Are you…" Hob started.

"Run, you fool!"

Hob did need to be told twice. He hurtled down the slope as fast as he could, losing his hat in the process. Who cared? He needed to be on time.

As he was speeding toward the carts, Hob caught a glimpse of black in the middle of the improbable colours of the Faery gathering. He was there. He was really there.

Finally, Hob would be able to ask him what was happening to him, why he kept coming back to their meeting. Was it a punishment for presuming too much? A test of his resolve to be immortal? Or was it a cruel joke from a bored god? How was Hob to approach him? Should he make himself humble and apologetic? Would he beg, if it was demanded of him? 

Hob had spent the last four years turning the expectations for this meeting again and again inside his head. He had imagined every first line, dreamt every ending. All of them were suddenly crowding his brain, leaving no room for the present.

As soon as Will caught sight of Hob, he hailed him in haste.

"Hob! Here you are, at last! I needed you in costume fifteen minutes ago."

Hob was hurried backstage, or what took place of it in this green scenery. He was given his costume and mask while he was struggling to focus enough to remember his first line. Fuck, he needed to stop overthinking.

The time for him to enter the stage came too fast.

As soon as he set the mask on his face, a miracle happened. Suddenly, there was no immortal Hob Gadling, no cursed Robert Gadlen. There was only Puck, Robyn Goodfellow, and the lines he was supposed to say. It was a transcendental experience, like the dream of a dream that was truer than reality. The world was false, artificial, but the story, the story held in itself a truth that reality could never approach.

When Hob removed his mask, backstage, it was time for the break. He looked at the inside of the thing, puzzled and dazed by what had just happened. He looked up, and his eyes met two yellow, malicious slit eyes. They were in the middle of a hairy brown face that belonged to a creature that was only vaguely human shaped.

"And Puck meets Puck - is that not preposterous?" The strange face said. "And what’s this I spy? Your mask?"

Hob could not see anything but these weird eyes.

"Oho ho ho, I do see sport here."

Hob’s eyes felt so heavy. Why was he trying to stay awake? He had been in the middle of a dream…Yes, it was midsummer, and he had been in the middle of a dream…

"You played me well, mortal. But I have played me for time out of mind. And I do Robin Goodfellow better than anyone."

It was the last thing Hob heard for a very long time.

 ---

Dream was annoyed. A weird itch inside his skull was bothering him. It was very much like a common human dream, the dream of knowing you forgot something important, but being unable to recall what. Out of desperation, he summoned the nightmare responsible for this. She looked like a small greying old lady. He explained his problem.

"Yes, this is usually what it feels like for them." She confirmed.

"What do the humans usually do, when it happens?"

"Most of them try to go back to where they were and what they were doing when the feeling appeared. This way, they can catch the train of thoughts they were having and find out what they're missing."

"I see."

Dismissing her, Dream started pacing around his throne room. Pieces of thoughts, landscapes and portraits were shifting on the three tainted glass panels behind the throne. Dream watched them dispassionately, waiting for the one that incite some reaction.

There. Titania. Oberon. Will Shakespeare. The itch had appeared immediately after the representation of a Midsummer Night's Dream.

He had noticed the first loop because he was looking for Will Shakespeare's works. He had noticed the second loop because Titania could not remember Will's play. He had noticed the third when Lucienne had come with the news that A Midsummer Night's Dream was completed. This was not a coincidence. This was a pattern. It was the way for the Dreaming, Dream's unconscious, to tell him where to look. In the Dreaming, there was no chance, only instinct in disguise.

Will Shakespeare was the key to the mystery of the time loop. Dream summoned Lucienne.

 ---

What happened next forever remained blurry in Hob’s mind. As in a dream, where the details of how one would go from one place to the other, Hob’s memories of the travel after the intermission was not entirely comprehensible to his mind.

He had been called, not by his name, but by a name that was his to bear for the time being, for the necessity of the play. The call had been irresistible, like falling asleep after a very long day. Hob’s mind had quieted, all occupied by his new orders.

He remembered a door, except it was not a door and it was actioned by the drawing of a man on a hill? It did not make a lot of sense.

Then, they had walked for a long time and not at all, it seemed like it was hours, yet the sun never moved in the sky. Hob was enjoying the summer sun and the soft grass under his bare feet, following a life of creatures. Every one of them was more fantastic than the next, some incredibly small, others way higher than Hob himself. They were sporting every kind of animal attribute, pelt, feathers, fangs, claws, yet they all spoke as clearly as any human to Hob’s ears.

When they finally stopped, they arrived in a city which looked nothing like a city. It was a city in the woods, a town without building. The trees themselves were forming walls and roofs of branches and foliage, bushes delimited paths and streets, brightly coloured flowers decorated the walls and windows.

Once again, Hob was called with a name that was not his, but borrowed, he did not know exactly how. The one calling him once again was tall. His traits seemed human from afar, but on a closer look, every feature was slightly off in a way that was terrifyingly inhuman. A face that did not resemble a face would be less disturbing and less alien than this strange otherworldly look. Hob was reminded of his mysterious patron of the White Horse, whose beauty had the same preternatural quality, though more fascinating and less frightening.

The man had horns and was dressed in a magnificent red armour, that he now asked that Hob helped him remove. Hob had no idea where even to start. His hands, though, knew. Fascinated, he looked at them untying the laces and buckles tying the crimson plates together. From up close, the colour was the tint of fresh blood, a particular shade that Hob remembered well from his soldiering days. As he touched the metal, he felt that it had become red as it had absorbed the blood of every foe the King of Faerie had shed the blood of, feeding from their life force and magic.

Confusion hit him like a punch. How could he know all that? What the Hell was happening to him? Where was he?

His fingers fumbled on the next buckle.

"Stop idling, Puck, and hurry up."

Puck? Yes, he was playing Puck. What was his line? Where was the prompter when you needed him?

"Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so."

The King laughed.

"I should have guessed this kind of entertainment would please you, Hobgoblin. You always liked playing on words and rhymes. Will you speak in pentameter from now on?"

Hob, yes, he was Hob. That was his name, short for Hobgoblin.

Hob removed the last plate, and with a gesture, his King sent him away.

He walked in the strange city of trees for a long time, listening to the life of the strange folk inhabiting it. Eventually, he found a well, and noticed that he had not drunk water since morning, caught in the bustle of the play. He had spoken much, and spent a long day under the hot sun of the Midsummer. He was thirsty.

He found a girl by the well drawing a bucket from its depth with difficulty. He proposed to help her drawing it, in exchange for a few gulps of water from it. She looked at him funnily, and hesitated a long time before agreeing.

Hob easily brought the bucket back up, and without waiting a second, swallowed half a dozen long gulps of the water. It tasted delicious, flowery like honey yet rich as a broth, and he knew that this water could feed a man as well as quench his thirst.

"Thank you, beautiful young lady. What is your name, that I can sing your praise?" he asked.

"I am called Nuala."

Hob lost track of how the day ended. The night came, and every being in the city of trees gathered in a great clearing filled with tables laden with food. Bright fires were burning in the middle of the clearing, and around them musicians and dancers flocked like moths around a candle.

It was a familiar ritual in the midst of a terrifyingly bizarre company. It was easier to let himself be lost in the inebriation of the festival, to drink his fill of strange and sweet beverages, to join the carols and hop over the fires until his head was empty but for a pleasant buzz.

Nuala had joined him again, at one point during the short summer night. Now the festivities were drawing to an end, as sun, still hidden, was brightening the dark sky and hiding the stars.

"I watched you dancing," she told him as he was resting, lying upon the soft slope of a hill. Water was gathering on the tip of blades of grass, and Hob knew he should have been cold, but he was not.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I am Hob."

"Is that all?"

What a strange question.

"It is all that I can remember."

She nodded, understanding more than he did.

"Yes, I see that. Hob is all you can be now, with the mask you are donning."

Hob brought his hands to his face, touching his cheeks. He could recall putting the mask on for the play, but not removing it. Yet, grazing his skin with his fingers, he could not feel the mask anymore, only his own face.

"You are Hobgoblin, because you traded who you were away. Someone has to be Puck, and you have to play the role until you can pass the mask on to someone else and take theirs."

"I can remember I had another name, a longer name, but I do not know what it was."

"It was taken from you, in payment for the mask. It is not yours to remember anymore."

"What should I do?"

"I do not know. You should be the Hobgoblin. You have nothing else left."

Hob nodded. He was too drunk on mead and dancing to care.

 ---

"My Lord?"

Lucienne looked up from the ancient tome she was inspecting with a magnifying glass. Dream had been observing her for several minutes while she was assessing the damage and repairing it.

"Lucienne. You left a note. You said you found a clue in our search for the cause of the disturbance in the timeline."

Lucienne carefully set apart the damaged book, and reached to the drawer of her desk.

"Yes, my Lord, I think so. You told me to watch carefully over William Shakespeare’s works, as you suspected your first meeting with him was or is the trigger of the time loops you experienced."

"We all experience the time loops, not only I. That I am simply the only one to remember them does not make them less real."

"Of course." She took a small book from the drawer and gave it to Dream. "I have watched over Shakespeare’s new writings. This one has stayed changing and unfinished for a long time, but it looks like it took a more definitive form at last."

Dream read the title. The Love of Sisyphus. 

"This is Shakespeare’s last play. He has only just started writing it. It is about a man who meets a mysterious stranger in an inn, and gains immortality. Each time this man dies, he is brought back to the day he bargained for immortality."

"Hob Gadling."

"The main character is called Hob Gadlen, my Lord."

"Do you think the loop is linked to Hob instead of Will, Lucienne?"

"After reading this play? I have no doubt about it, my Lord. This story is too close to your own with Hob Gadling to be a coincidence. I believe Hob Gadling has confided in Will about his experience of the time loops. Read it."

Dream read the play like one looked at a crash, with a morbid fascination and an unshakeable desire to stop it from even happening. The tale is frighteningly accurate on details of Dream’s meeting with the man. There is absolutely no doubt the two men talked about Dream. How Will convinced Hob that it would be a good idea to play his story, Dream cannot imagine. Though the boastful knight he had met in 1589, so confident that he couldn’t be caught that he would come back as his own son three times in a row, could have been seduced by a promise of fame more that he would have been afraid from being outed.

Then Dream reached the death of Robyn Gadlen, and he wanted to throw the book by the window of his tower. He wouldn’t, because he had a healthy respect for Lucienne - and the certainty that she would flay him if he did. Dream had known it would happen to Hob Gadling. Feelings had warred in him then. A cruel thought of vengeance at the idea of the cocky idiot who called death stupid having to bury his own son. That was Dream had expected from the start, that was to witness this fall that he had agreed to Death’s proposition for the man. To wipe his arrogance, and his disrespect.

Yet, Dream knew this pain. He knew the agony of being immortal when his child was not. And, faced with the realisation of it, he did not wish it upon anyone else, not even a stupid arrogant man like Hob. No one deserved go to through this pain, and it brought Dream no joy to see another man fighting with it.

Hob’s loss of his wife and child was only the beginning of his suffering in the play. Again and again, Hob died, and was brought back to his meeting with Dream’s avatar in this story. Again and again, he had the joy of having his family back, and the pain of knowing he would lose them again.

Dream did not want to read more, yet he could not stop reading. The ending puzzled him the most. Hob Gadlen met with Dream’s alter ego once more, during a feast with the Fae. Then, the man confronted the mysterious stranger, before they left the stage together forever, Hob abandoning his part in the story and leaving his life behind.

Was it an attempt, from Hob, to find a way to avoid the time loops? Was it a plea to Dream that he had tasked Shakespeare’s to convey? 

There was a very simple way to find out. It was time Dream paid a visit to Hob Gadling’s dreams.

 ---

Hob checked around him from under the shadow of his hood before knocking on the wooden door.

"Nuala, are you there?" he muttered.

He heard the sound of wood on wood from the inside, and a ruffling. Nuala opened the door of her little house-within-a-tree, and let Hob in without a sound. Only when the door was closed, she started to talk.

"You chose your moment to come back, as always, Hobgoblin. The Lord Shaper has come visiting. Titania and Auberon are negotiating with him."

"Are they? Good, they won’t think about me."

Hob had been hiding for the last fortnight, after his last prank at the expense of both the King and the Queen. For the better and for the worse, Hob was Puck, the Hobgoblin. It was his role to trick and ridicule, especially the powerful. It was his sacred duty, even when he had to hide to escape the ire of his suzerain for long enough that the spirits cooled down.

Hob did not know how long he had been Puck. It did not quite make sense, in Faerie, were the seasons were not passing as they were on Earth. It had been long enough for him to get used to the mask he had been tricked into wearing, as his own flesh had been stolen by the former Robin Goodfellow. One Robin, in exchange for a Robert, one Hob for the other, it almost seemed like it was destined to happen.

Hob could have abandoned his mask, tricked another fellow human to get back to his own world. But if he had, he would have relinquished every hope to ever gain his own name and his own life back. Hob did not want to live as another for all eternity. He had time, time to trick Puck in turn and get his own name back. All the time in the world and any other.

Hob removed his hood and cape, and hung them, before joining Nuala at the table. She was serving them water infused with flower petals, her favourite. The water was hot already, she had prepared it for herself before Hob showed up.

"Why is the Lord Shaper here?" Hob asked after some sips.

"How would I know? He comes, from time to time. He hasn’t come since the time he invited the Court to the play where you were fetched."

"Do you think he would help me, if I asked him?"

Hob didn’t know why he asked. Why would the Shaper help a nobody like Hob, someone who didn’t even dream anymore? Yet, something, inside Hob, told him they knew each other.

Nuala laughed, and Hob let the idea down.

"The Lord Shaper is not known for being helpful, Hobgoblin. He is immensely powerful, much more than King Auberon and Queen Titania, but it only means you can have nothing that he would consider as a payment for helping you."

"Forget it."

Hob saw him, from afar. The dark shape of the Lord Shaper was achingly familiar, and Hob had to fight the urge to run after him and hail him. He had something to tell him, to ask him, yet he had no idea what it was. The memory was forgotten like a dream in the morning, fading as fast as one tried to piece it back together. There was a pain in Hob’s heart, like an old wound aching from time to time, that he did understand anymore, some piece of him that was stolen with his identity.

"Puck, you are back." Auberon had approached from behind as Hob was lost in his thoughts, watching the Lord Shaper disappear between the trees.

"My King, have you been missing me?" Hob asked, trying his best to infuse mischief in his tone, when he felt inexplicably bereft from the inside.

"You were wise to hide, Hobnob, for my fair Titania was very cross. You would have regretted overstaying your welcome."

"I am only glad that I am welcome again, Your Majesty."

"You are, my Puck, for what would the Court be, without his jester?"

"Very dull, my King."

"Very dull indeed. Come, I have need for a laugh. Sing something for me."

Hob started a bawdy song, and forgot his melancholy.

Yet, like a pungent smell, the melancholy did not leave Hob alone. He surprised himself, watching the stars by night in a meadow, looking for constellations in vain. He was under strange skies and the stars were as out of place as Hob himself in Faerie. He was haunted by the memory of other nights, long ago, when he went lying in the grass with his son to tell him stories under the summer night sky. His boy was fascinated by the myths and legends attached to the constellations, the story of Callisto the Great Bear, the legend of Cassiopeia, the myth of Orpheus and his lyre. After his mother died, they had spent many times together watching the stars by clear weather, as they both imagined that she was up there, with them, listening to the stories Hob told.

The details were missing, their names were lost and their faces blurry, yet the feelings were there, intact in Hob’s heart, waiting to surge again. He remembered the love even after forgetting the words of tenderness, remembered the longing even after losing the sense of time. He remembered the loss, too. He was missing a part of himself so fundamental only the shape of the emptiness inside him would define it.

Hob started coming back, every night, to look at the stars and wonder what else he could not recall. During the day, he would look out for a smell, a word, a sound that would give him back a precious piece of his past back.

He never knew if his nostalgia was what brought the former Puck to Faerie. If, like an itch, it bothered the current owner of the name to be remembered by the former one.

The one who had been Puck woke up Hob with a bucket of cold water, a morning of spring. The Hobgoblin had no home and no ties. As the jester of the Court, he was a vagrant, a free spirit. He belonged nowhere.

Hob opened his eyes, irritated at being the victim of a trick where he should have been the perpetrator. He looked at the one who had woken him, and his fury was replaced by shock.

In front of him was a rich man, well dressed and sure of himself. Hob knew, without a doubt, that it was himself he was seeing, himself as he should have been.

"Hello, good fellow!" the other Hob greeted him.

"You! You are…you are…" Hob stumbled, as he could not remember his name.

"I am Sir Robert Gadlen, of course!" Puck bowed mockingly.

It was not Hob’s name, only another layer of mist. Puck was dangling Hob’s name, just beyond reach. Robert Gadlen was close, but not enough. Not true enough for Hob to reclaim his life.

"What do you want?" Hob asked.

"Well, I wanted to see how you fared, being me. I have been me from times before time, and you’re pretty new at it. I was wondering if you were a good Robin."

"Oh, because I assume you have been a good me, then?" Hob quipped.

"I have been the perfect you, much better than you were. You were a bad Sir Gadlen, Hob, roaming the countryside with actors and playwrights while your poor wife and son were abandoned at home, worrying for your life! You were so bad that Will Shakespeare wrote a very successful play about your woes!"

Hob stood up, furious beyond words and ready to strike.

"I went back to your home, Hob, and found a lovely wife with a temper, and a great sense of humour. How we laughed, she and I, sowing chaos in the court of England. I must commend you for marrying such a bright woman, though I cannot understand why you would leave a jewel like her unattended. She had the most wicked instinct for the best pranks."

"Had?" Hob noticed with dismay.

"That is unfortunate, but she was only human. She had to die one day or the other, though I wish I could have brought her back to Faerie to be with me forever. I tried to trick her more than once, and she never fell for it! So Brilliant!"

The pain that hit Hob was achingly familiar. Like a wound reopened, again and again. She was dead, his wife was dead.

Puck kept talking, not noticing or not minding Hob’s turmoil.

"She knew I wasn’t you. She was suspicious at first, when I came back. She caught me, after a few years, and she found out I was a changeling. She kept me, though, because I was all she had. She went along splendidly."

Hob thought he could not pay attention to what Puck prattled. He found out he was wrong. As the fae kept telling Hob more about his life with Hob’s own wife, and about how he had raised Hob’s son, Hob’s heart was dying the death of a thousand cuts. Every word, every detail would remind Hob of his own memories with them, of the life he had lost on a trick of fate. The more he remembered, the more he suffered.

"Stop it! Enough! What do you want, you wretched thing?" Hob exploded.

He was standing, finding himself smaller than Puck, when he knew he should have been taller. He was Hobgoblin, and the other was Sir Gadlen.

"What do I want? Why, nothing, Hob, or at least, nothing that you can give me yet. I have been very glad, being you. I wanted to come back to see if you had done a good job being me in turn. I went to ask my Good King Oberon, and my Fair Queen Titania. I went to ask the people of Faerie about your joking and tricking and pranking. After the disaster of a knight that you were, I must tell I was not expecting much. I feared I would have to resume my role. Yet, I was delighted to see you have been serious about being the Hobgoblin. Some here have not even noticed you were not me! The fools."

Hob was gobsmacked. He had played himself. He had tried being good at what he was, and now it bit him in the arse.

"In the end, I have come to thank you, Hob. You are a great Robin Goodfellow, and thanks to you I have no qualms going back and live your best life. After all, little Robyn is waiting for me home. He is going to need me cheering him up, now that his mother is gone.

"See you, Hob. I shall come back for my name when I have had my fill being you. Fare well."

And with this, he was gone. And with him, he took Hob’s heart and his last hope.

 ---

"Lucienne!"

Dream entered the Library in a storm of feathers and papers. Jessamy was desperately trying not to hit a shelf, tossed around by the winds swirling in his wake.

There was no answer. This was highly unusual, Lucienne had always answered promptly whenever Dream had need of her. Because she was a former Raven, she was still attuned to his moods and needs through their connexion. She had to know he had need of her services.

He turned around uselessly in the endless shelves of the Library. Lines and lines of books were aligned, forming a labyrinth of alleys. He read the titles, trying in vain to understand Lucienne’s classification system. Order never came naturally to Dream. His nature was too changing, too chaotic for any form of order to ever stick. That was why, when the sum of every story ever thought had started growing exponentially, he had created the Library and appointed Lucienne to head it. Dream himself was utterly unable to file a book correctly, or to find a specific one without Lucienne’s help.

And he needed her help now. Hob Gadling’s dreams were nowhere to be found. No matter where Dream searched, how many times he roamed the Sea, the man was not within Dream’s realm. Dream had waited, one day, two, then a week, just in case Hob was skipping his night’s rest, to no avail. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, the infuriating man was not sleeping.

Dream had been tempted to call for Delirium right away. Humans kept too long from his domain were ineluctably attracted and trapped to his younger sister’s. Yet, Delirium was not known for giving straight answers, or giving answers at all.

First, Dream wanted to check Hob’s dream log in the Library, and for this he needed Lucienne to find the human’s file among the hundred million of them.

"Lord Morpheus!" Jessamy croaked from afar. "Lucienne left a note!"

Dream heard the sound of his raven’s wings behind him, and turned his head to find her gracefully turning around the corner. Advancing her legs, she folded her wings back against her body and landed on his left shoulder, light as a feather.

She was holding a piece of parchment inside her beak. The note, written in Lucienne’s elegant script, was brief, only stating that she was working in the archives in the basement, and that she would be back shortly.

Dream hesitated. The archives contained most of the documents pertaining to times that were not anymore and never had been. It was the place where the documents of universes that had been rewritten over, erased or destroyed were kept. They forever belonged in Dream’s memory, and thus to the landscape of the Dreaming, yet they were intrinsically dangerous. The simple reading of one of them could destabilize a timeline or create a catastrophic resurgence.

It was logical that Lucienne had much work to do there, with the many hiccups the universe had known of late. Yet, Dream disliked the idea of her going there, and he disliked the idea of himself going there even more. The place was full of reminders of previous versions of himself, versions that had not survived the trials of his function, versions he was loathe to confront.

He settled to wait, with a folio of Shakespeare’s work to pass the time. For every play, Dream could notice small changes from versions if the earlier universes. Elements that were previously speculations were stated as facts. Plays of which only the title had survived were printed in full.

Dream flipped the pages back to the start of the folio. The date was thirty years too early.

"Printed in 1593 by Hob Gadling"

Here it was, a confirmation of the direct connexion between Hob and Will Shakespeare. Hob Gadling had been a printer, a century before, though he had not understood the incredible cultural significance of the new technology. A hundred years later, the educated Sir Gadlen would not have underestimated the value of the printed word, and seen the interest of having recorded versions of Shakespeare’s verses.

Dream was so engrossed in his theories that he did not hear Lucienne coming back.

"My Lord? May I help you?"

"Yes," he said, hastily closing the folio. "I am looking for the dream log of Hob Gadling."

"The Hob Gadling? I thought you had said you did not want it accessible to anyone. Something about no one interfering with the bet between you and your sister Death?"

"That is why I need your help. I only want to know what is the date of the last known dream recorded for Hob Gadling. I have been trying to find his dreamscape for several night, with no success."

Lucienne nodded, and went to a large opened book on a wheel. It was a registry, where she recorded every dream log in existence and cross referenced it with other record about an individual, like their Waking memories or every story they imagined.

After a few minutes of research, Lucienne came back with a massive tome. It was old in design but looked otherwise brand new.

Dream looked away as she opened the book. His deal with Desire around the immortal man forbid that he interfered with Hob’s dreams and nightmares.

Dream heard Lucienne swear, and it took all his willpower for him no to turn toward her. Lucienne was never so uncouth.

"My Lord, what is happening to Hob Gadling? I have multiples dream entries for each day of his life, generally three or four of them. Hell, I have entries in the future, as far as the 1620s. Did you expect we would be finding this when you asked me? How is it even possible?"

"I do not know, Lucienne. It is the confirmation that I needed: Hob Gadling is the person at the centre of the temporal loop that we are currently trapped in. To my knowledge, this is the fourth loop centred around Hob Gadling that we are living, thus the multiple entries in his dream log. The end of each thread of entries will give us the date where the universe looped back on itself. Would you mind going back in the book and try finding the day of the first multiple dream entry?"

Hob’s dream log was long, and it took some time for Lucienne to pinpoint the start of the multiple dreams.

"Here, June 8th, 1589, my Lord."

"The day after we met."

Not only this loop was tied to Hob, it was also likely tied to Dream himself. Hob kept coming back to the day after their meeting. Why? How had he found the power to bend time to his will? Was he protected by another entity, shielding him from the influence of the Lord of Dreams, who was the only one who could detect the time loop?

If so, Dream was going to expose them and restore the Universe. But first, he needed more tangible proof. In the absence of Hob Gadling, Dream would have to go back to his last known connection, Will Shakespeare.

 ---

There was someone in the middle of Hob's kitchen. Hob had been going back home after an ordinary day of mischief at the Faerie Court. He wanted calm and quiet. He wanted some time to be Hob Gadling, instead of Hobgoblin.

After Puck had gone back to Earth, the magnitude of what Hob had lost had hit him like an anvil, heavy and useless if you didn't know what to do with it. He missed Eleanor, he missed Robyn. He had no idea how much time had passed, or if he had any chance to find them again.

The knowledge of what he had become, how much he had been shaped by his role in Faerie, made it all the more unbearable. He was, in many ways a caricature of himself. The need to prank and mock was as real as the need to eat and drink had been. Yet, it disgusted him.

Now, in Hob's sanctuary, in the only place he could try and remember who he was before he forgot entirely, there was an unwelcome visitor.

"You. Again. Am I to believe your parents never taught you never to trespass?"

The stranger smiled, a mesmerizing view. Like the teeth of a shark, just before it ate you. Hob had to repress a sudden need to ridicule himself. Shitty Hobgoblin brain. The more powerful the being, the more Hobgoblin wanted to make himself laughable. Despicable. Hob Gadling stood his ground in his own home.

"What makes you think I ever listened to what they told me?"

Their golden eyes glistened as they delicately plucked an apple from the basket in the middle of the tables. Nuala must have dropped them for Hob during the day. The apple seemed to grow redder in the being's hand. Perfect white teeth punctured the skin to bury into the flesh. Hob shivered. Do not make a pun. Breathe.

"What do you want," he asked.

"Wrong question, Hob. The real question is: what do you want? I know it, you know it."

"Why does it matter? I wanted a great many damned things. The universe doesn't really care, I live with it. End of story."

"It could very well be the end of your story here, Hob Gadling, you're right. Do you know what kills an immortal?"

Hob didn't answer. Was it a threat?

"Oblivion. Forgetting who one is can kill even the immortal, Hob Gadling. Or should I say Hobgoblin? How much of you is still the immortal human who wanted to live forever, and how much is now the jester of Faerie?"

Hob had been asking himself the same question every day since Puck had come back. He was unable to say if it had been a week or a decade. He had tried to mark the passage of time by counting days. He could not remember to count them most day, or maybe he could but he could not trust that he had not forgotten a day. The past was blurry, like Hob had time short-sightedness.

"I know what you desire, Hob Gadling. You want your life back, you want to be whole again. If you stay here, you will forget who you were, sooner or later. You will become Hobgoblin. You will never see you wife or your child again.”

See you on the other side.

Eleanor had said that. When? Why?

He had not met her, on the other side. He'd been too cowardly.

If he didn't do something, he would pay it forever.

"I'm here to offer you a way out, Hob Gadling." The stranger said.

The apple was gone. How long had Hob been thinking? The stranger stood up, and walked up to Hob.

It happened too fast. There was something sharp inside Hob's ribs. His belly was wet. The thing shifted inside him and caught his beating heart. The thrum ended, and Hob's body was eerily silent. He opened his mouth to talk, but breathing to push air through his trachea was too painful.

"I'm killing you, Hob Gadling. It's the only way you can escape this trap and not lose yourself forever. Try not to forget your goal, next time. Save my stupid brother."

 ---

Will Shakespeare was inspired. It was around midnight, and he was writing furiously without a pause, verse after verse of a new play. It was a potent sight, an inebriating smell for the senses of the Prince of Stories. The plot, the characterisation, the scansion of iambs like a music of words, all were feeding the Endless with a nearly religious fervour.

Dream was standing there, hidden in the dark shadows cast by the candle. This hour, in the heart of night, belonged to him like no other. It was a liminal time between dreams, were creativity was at his highest, fed by the sleep before and after.

Dream was there to speak with Will, but it seemed he had been called to this moment like by a prayer, as surely as if Will had burned Dream's name on a piece of paper. It would be sacrilegious to interrupt the playwright.

Instead, Dream inhaled a deep breath, enjoying the pure inspiration. He so rarely indulged, lately, in these old pleasures. Once upon a time, long ago, when he was first courting Calliope, they would spend most of their days inspiring poets all around the world, filling the world with rich stories and richer dreams. At first, it was a friendly rivalry, each driven to nurture better works of art. With time, it turned into collaboration, each challenge an invitation to build a corpus of stories more magnificent than ever before in the history of mankind.

He missed her.

Dream was lost in reminiscence when Will finished the scene he was writing. The playwright cleaned his pen, dried the ink on the last page and put them all in order. Then he grabbed the candle, turned around and froze, eyes fixed on Dream's corner of shadows.

He grew so pale Dream was worried fear had killed the man. Death did not come, though, so Dream stepped out of the darkness, lightening up the flames at the bottom of his cape in an effort to appear less frightening.

It failed. Will started shaking, the light cast by the candle moving erratically.

"Are you the Devil?" he said. "My Lord." he added as an afterthought.

"William Shakespeare."

"Yes?"

"If you had listened more attentively to what Hob Gadling told you, you would know that I am not the Devil."

"Excuse me, Sir, but I only know that you pretend not to be the Devil. I must say the flames burning ominously at the bottom of your cape are a giveaway. Surely the Devil could lie about his own nature. It would take the Devil's power to make a man immortal, after all."

"Are you not satisfied with my gift, then?"

"I am. It is everything I ever dreamt for."

"I know."

"But my friend Hob…He was not very satisfied with his, last time I saw him. He was looking for you. Did he find you?"

"No. I, too, am looking for him."

"I thought he had found you that day, when we played A Midsummer Night's Dream for your friends from Faerie. I never saw him again afterwards."

"He could have been tricked by the Fae. Which part was he playing?"

"Robin Goodfellow."

"Then it is likely he was trapped. Hobgoblin would have found very amusing to trap someone pretending to be him. The coincidence of their shared name, and the consonance of Hob Gadling and Hobgoblin would have proved a very strong net for Hob to be caught in."

"All this time, he's been trapped in Faerie? It's been more than a decade!"

"Time does not flow in Faerie as it flows here. It is immaterial. I know where and how to reclaim him now."

Dream felt it first like a missed heartbeat. He had no heart per se, but he knew the feeling well from living creature's dreams. Then the unease grew stronger, and Dream had trouble containing his presence inside his manifestation. His image broke, duplicating, blurring not only over space, but over time. Will Shakespeare's brain struggled with the nature of what he was seeing, and lost.

"What is happening?" the human heaved.

Dream could not answer. Words were now beyond him. He felt trapped, twisted, wrung out and disassembled at the same time.

The universe was rewinding back, and this time, being in the Waking, Dream felt the power of the spell. He was too late. The loop was starting again.

Before everything blacked out, Dream heard a very familiar laugh.

---

For the master post, it’s here

[wyvernquill]

I posted 96 times in 2022

38 posts created (40%)

58 posts reblogged (60%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@wyvernquill

@/ao3feed-dreamling

@/softest-punk

@/10moonymhrivertam

@/littledreamling

I tagged 96 of my posts in 2022

#the sandman - 29 posts

#wywrites - 29 posts

#dreamling - 24 posts

#reblog - 20 posts

#wyreblogs - 19 posts

#timezone reblog - 18 posts

#wyanswers - 15 posts

#wydraws - 14 posts

#anastasia dreamling au - 13 posts

#dream of the endless - 9 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#yes it's also possible that she couldn't return to the dreaming because dream was trapped and that somehow bound her to the waking world too

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

“I will see you in the year of Our Lord 1489, then!”

“Friendship. I think you’re lonely.”

---

Some quick and dirty Aristocats AU(?) screenshot redraws inspired by this post by @/fishfingersandscarves (and @10/moonymhrivertam​‘s tags on it)!

366 notes - Posted October 31, 2022

#4

“Oh, silly Stanley! He could draw That Place as much as he liked, he would still never be able to return to it!”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/40685247/chapters/102405018

461 notes - Posted August 7, 2022

#3

See the full post

583 notes - Posted November 14, 2022

#2

Today I offer you the following headcanon/scenario: Hob dislikes Shakespeare and criticises him, but not because he's jealous of Dream walking off with him in 1589... no, it's because he genuinely thinks the man was a talentless hack.

Let me elaborate.

Hob does like Shakespeare's plays, and grudgingly admits they're the work of a "half-decent playwright", judging from the 1789 scene. He does appreciate the craftsmanship.

The only trouble: Hob is of the opinion that it's not technically Will's work at all. It's His Stranger who had... well, some hand, at least, in the creation of those masterpieces, and Hob hates that Shakespeare gets the sole credit.

(Now, to be clear, I do think that all Dream did was lend Shakespeare support and inspiration and the power to put his own dreams and imaginations into words. It's absolutely still William Shakespeare's work at the core, and Dream's involvement is hardly much more than in any other story ever written - but Hob doesn't know exactly how this works, does he?)

Imagine his frustration. Imagine people praising Shakespeare as a genius in front of him, and Hob bursting to say "actually, he was total shite until he sold his soul or something to the maybe-devil in exchange for talent". He thinks he's the only human in the world who knows The Truth About Will Shaxberd, and it drives him mad that any attempt to explain it would make him sound like some conspiracy nut.

It's the sort of thing that could drive a man to irrationally hate a playwright and his ill-gotten gains, it really could.

(Which is highly hypocritical of him, seeing as he himself enjoys the boon of that very same maybe-devil - well, his sister’s, actually, not that Hob knows that - but it's aBOUT THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING-)

And that's how Hob ends up as his university's #1 Shakespeare Hater.

.

And perhaps, Dream eventually explains to him who he is and how his boons work, and Hob suddenly realises he has to revise his entire spiteful opinion of William Shakespeare, who may have had a certain spark of talent of his own, after all...

And then, groping desperately for some reason to cling on to his increasingly irrational dislike of the man, Hob recalls how Will stole his date back in 1589, and breathes a sigh of relief at the realisation that he can carry on hating Shakespeare just as much as before, only now for a different reason.

(Not that saying "I hate Shakespeare because he stole my boyfriend" will make him sound any less like a nutter than insisting his talent came from magical intervention... but, well, it's a step in the right direction, isn’t it.)

632 notes - Posted October 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Now, this may be obvious to others, but I haven’t seen much discussion of it here on Tumblr, so I thought I’d draw some attention to it!

In my n-th rewatch of the 1389 scene (I keep checking and re-checking the details for accuracy in my fics), I noticed something interesting towards the beginning of the scene: I think Dream was about to “poach” Geoffrey Chaucer, similarly to what he did in 1589 with Shakespeare.

It’s subtle, but you can see Death and Dream pause in front of his table, listen to their conversation, and Dream is noticeably interested - and why wouldn’t he be, Geoffrey here is practically catnip for the Lord of Stories! So he steps closer, he leans in, we can even see him open his mouth as if to strike up some conversation about those “tavern tales”...

...and then Hob Gadling says “Look, I’ve seen death”, and both Dream and Death stop in their tracks, and the scene proceeds as we all know and love it.

Now, I really adore this little moment for multiple reasons:

1) I suspect Death planned this. She dragged Dream into the tavern and led him over to Chaucer’s table, and was going to make her silly little brother talk to a promising storyteller in the waking world for once - but then they found an even more interesting human to spark Dream’s curiosity instead, which, still a win in Death’s book.

2) It’s just so Dream. Of course he wouldn’t be able to resist a storyteller in the wild, of course he would be drawn to that conversation. Of course he would do his whole “oh, is this your wish then?” spiel and play patron of the arts for a little while. This is what he does and is, which only makes it more interesting that he then turned towards Hob instead (and didn’t talk to Chaucer after, I’m pretty sure we see Dream leave at the end of the scene?) Which brings me to

3) IF ONLY HOB KNEW. Hob “probably still mad at Shakespeare for stealing his date once” Gadling would be OVER THE MOON to know that Dream of the Endless snubbed Geoffrey Fucking Chaucer to talk to him, albeit only because he mocked Dream’s sister within earshot. Please, somebody tell him, it would be the highlight of his century, I just know it.

1,669 notes - Posted October 15, 2022

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[thranduilland]

WIP Word Search Game

Tagged by @sleepsonfutons with the words appearance, revenge, master, reward, jacket, and double

Snips under the break

Appearance (strangers to lovers- Dream was Eleanor)

She’s certain she can protect this child if they are not born exactly as a human might expect, but she wishes she wouldn’t have to. She wishes she could know if Hob would accept them, even if they were born… not quite human in appearance, temperament, abilities, et cetera. She wishes she could trust the staff here to care for her child the way they deserve should they happen to be born just short of expectation. But she doesn’t trust the staff.

Revenge, okay somehow... none of my wips have 'revenge' so I went with 'vengeance' instead... (occultist Hob summons the King of Dreams to demand he keep better track of his nightmares)

Now, she is a fragile little thing, too thin, too pale, too much a ghost of her past self. If Andy could see her now, he’s sure she’d kick his arse for it. Then, she’d raid the Dreaming herself to get vengeance for their daughter. But Andy is not here, she’s busy putting her affairs in order and preparing for her next great adventure. All Jessamy has is Hob, and he’s failing.

Master(s) (Hob is Irmo from Tolkien legendarium)

“I am Irmo. The Vala of Dreams, Desires, and Visions, Lord of Lórien, the youngest of the Fëanturi, the Masters of the Spirits,” Irmo answers, blinking. “I am also called Hob Gadling or Robart Gladley, in this time.”

Reward (Hob got possessed by a demon at the 1989 meeting)

While the demon cannot read Hob’s thoughts or his memories, if Hob tries to speak, the demon can hear that. Hob hadn’t cared about that too much at the beginning, not until the first time the demon picked a victim who looked just a little bit too much like Hob’s Stranger. Hob has plead for all of them to run away, to be safe, to save themselves, but… the demon had noticed the shift in the way Hob pleaded for the stranger-look-alikes and that was it. The worst part is, the demon treats it like some sort of sick reward for Hob, when Hob hasn’t been annoying them as much.

Jacket Okay, again, nothing with jacket, so I used 'coat' (The Hope in Hell, Hob is Lucifer's child, Hope)

“What good is Hope?” he asks, as he shrugs that name from his shoulders. “What good am I?” Hob Gadling asks as he pulls his coat tighter around himself and stalks off into the night. He has nowhere to go, nowhere to be, but he cannot stay here.

Double (Eleanor was Shaxberd)

They do not speak of that night again, which is a relief for Eleanor, because she has yet to come clean about her double life. Instead, she spends her time off ‘visiting relatives’ in other parts of the country, all the while she is spreading her poetry far and wide under a false name while her husband stays home to run their lands.

This ended up being a lot harder than I expected?!?! Hahah, oh well. Got there in the end. I am tagging @phinofthestorm because I want snips :P and anyone else who wants to do it but no pressure!!! Your words are prayer, nightmare, agony, touch, scar, and love

[landwriter]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

a bouquet, for you <3

A moth can’t get to the moon and so it finds flame instead, and Hob finds his excuses in guest lectures and conference presentations and symposiums. Warms himself on the familiar honey-taste of words from three or four hundred years ago. Sinks into Lyonais Francoprovencal, into Middle French, into Old English, into sweet agony, just for a term, just for an hour, just for a sonnet, and always he catches himself at the last second, running headlong into memory and then teetering on the edge, swaying toward things he cannot say, definitions he cannot document, and a language only rooted in the testimony of one.

He never does recitations drunk anymore. He needs all of his inhibitions to pull himself back from the ledge, to fumble his way back through centuries of syntax and lexicon and vowel shifts and arrive again in present day.

Never even talks about old words while drunk after the last time.

He’d gone to bed that night and laid awake until he was sober again, and longer still, thinking of men whose faces he was inventing because memory had scrubbed them clear, but whose voices he thought he still remembered, whose quiet words of comfort he had once held close, the night before Saint Crispin’s Day, on their way to muddy cold Calais.

Shaxberd had made a popular speech of it. Hob pretends he can’t remember it whenever it’s requested.

---

nine sentences (i counted) just for you my darling!!! from the death of translation, re-inflicting agincourt on you bc i know it's ur fave <3

[valiantstarlights]

[Enlightenment] Chapter 2: Boundaries

Chapter 1: Realizations

Dream goes to The New Inn in 2022 and is met with a polite but distant Hob.

CW: angst

In the wake of The White Horse Tavern closing not even after a year after his and his Stranger's centennial meeting, Hob decides that he should just stop trying.

It has been made clear to him that no one wants to be his friend just for the sake of being friends, and so he does the sensible thing and stops inserting himself needlessly into other people's lives.

He starts to categorize people based on how he knows them: co-workers, bosses, students, small business owners he buys his food from...

But never friends.

It's freeing.

He doesn't have to be anything to anyone anymore. He can fulfill his duties without expecting something foolish like friendship in return. It's a somewhat lonely existence, but it's a better one compared to the way he did things before.

And besides, he has been alone for as long as he can remember. Even before he became immortal, and even before his entire family died of the plague, he has always been alone.

Why didn't he see it before?

Hob as a child wanted to have friends too. But he was too him, and so his playmates always 'forget' to look for him every time he plays hide and seek with them.

It's funny, looking back on it now. He thought he was just so good at hiding that no one found him.

And so he stayed hidden. Past sunset, past curfew, past midnight, and until the sun rises again, child Hob sits alone in his hiding place, waiting for someone to find him.

No one does. And no one comes looking for him either.

His parents had far more important worries than wondering where one of their many children is, like actually finding enough food to feed them all.

For all Hob knew, they were thankful when he doesn't go home. One less mouth to feed and all. For all he knew, they had been the ones to tell his playmates not to go looking for him.

Six hundred year old Hob pities himself as a child. He should not have tried so hard. All he did was waste his time.

--

Winter of 1991 is when Hob realizes that he does not blame his Stranger for leaving as he did at all.

He must have been at the end of his patience with Hob, and Hob callously telling him that he thinks he's lonely would have been the straw that broke the camel's back.

Looking back on it, he deserved his Stranger's angry reaction.

What does Hob know about his life? For all he knows, his Stranger could have friends and family waiting for him to arrive as soon as he concludes his centennial meetings with Hob.

In fact, they were probably the ones who dared him into making Hob immortal, so they would get endless entertainment out of him.

Hob waxing poetic about chimneys? Amazing. He's such a hilarious little fool. Venison pasties being the best thing ever? Classic peasant Hob, only now he's masquerading as a lord.

It's fine. Hob knows he can be unintentionally funny sometimes.

But now that his Stranger has obviously and very definitively moved on, Hob hopes that wherever he is right now, he has already gotten himself another Shaxberd.

If he has, and Hob is certain that he has, then he is happy for him. For them.

He hopes that whoever his Stranger's new immortal is, they'll take care of him as he deserves, and tell him better stories that would survive through the ages, like Shaxberd's did.

He hopes he meets them someday. Not to be friends, of course. But just to thank them for taking care of his Stranger when Hob had been too incompetent to even have a meaningful conversation with him.

--

The old barkeep from 1989 builds the New Inn in the year 2000, just a stone throw's away from the White Horse Tavern, and Hob invests in it.

He has too much money now. And while he's adamant in keeping himself apart from other people, he still likes helping those in need.

He gives to charities, supports worthwhile endeavors, and funds the schooling of the kids who have aged out of orphanages. Sometimes he even helps them get their first jobs if they need it. Those he helps occasionally end up taking part-time jobs in The New Inn, and they never know that they were serving the person who funded their college education.

It's fine. Hob doesn't mind being anonymous. He would rather be anonymous nowadays, anyway. Just plain old Mr. Gadling with his plain looks and his plain life, studying to become a professor of history.

Maybe one day, far off into the future, he would manage to atone for what he has done during his years as a slaver.

He knows he never would, but he tries his best anyway.

--

The old barkeep dies in 2016 and wills Hob (who has remained anonymous) The New Inn.

Hob has no wish to deal with the minutiae of running an inn, however, and so he promotes a couple of folks to run the Inn for him, and gets them to hire more helpers if they need it.

He doesn't know whose idea it was to spray paint the sign in front of The White Horse Tavern pointing to the New Inn, or who keeps repainting it, but he lets it slide. Business is business, after all, and if it gets the inn more customers, then who is Hob to complain?

Most of the regular customers are locals who have been getting pints from the old tavern, but tourists also come by, and students from the nearby university where Hob teaches frequent the Inn as well. The tourists come for the good food, the students come for the free wifi, and Hob welcomes them all.

He arranges all of the customers neatly into their own categories (student here for the wifi, office worker here for lunch, food blogger, artist looking for a quiet spot, Thursday Game Night LARPers) and ignores the numbers occasionally slipped his way with free drinks.

He has no need for one night stands, and would rather not create a new category for them. He's found, over the years, that he likes having his own space, with no one bothering him, and he will not let anyone disrupt the peaceful home he has managed to build for himself.

If he wants to be pleasured, then he has his own hands, and online shopping sites to buy sex toys from.

He likes it better, he thinks. Being the master of his own pleasure and not needing to make the effort of pleasing anyone else. If he wants to go to sleep right after cumming, then he can. No more need for pillow talk or immediate clean up. And if he wakes in the middle of the night and wants to pleasure himself more, then who is there to stop him?

He might miss the words of praise given by his past bedmates, but he can easily conjure up similar words in his mind, in a variety of voices, making themselves repeat the same words over and over again without feeling guilty or needy, and he does not feel bereft.

He's already had enough of people. And no good ever comes from having lovers, especially if it's only him that loves and his feelings are never requited.

--

In 2022, when Hob sees his Old Stranger again, he smiles.

It's nice to see a familiar face once in a while. Just last week, he saw his neighbors from the 1960s selecting vegetables in the farmers' market. They are still together and looking as in love as they had been when they were younger. Hob avoided them because he doesn't want to be recognized and asked uncomfortable questions, but he's happy that the two of them could legally get married now.

"You're early," Hob tells his Stranger. Were he still hoping that the two of them could be friends, he would have said something stupid like, 'You're late,' and then his Stranger would get pissed off all over again, and it would just make Hob tired in the long run.

"Early?" His Stranger asks. He takes his seat in front of Hob. He looks skinnier than usual. Hob raises his hand so one of the waitresses would come over.

"Yeah, for 2089," Hob says. To the waitress, he says, "Hey, Dani, can I get a fry up, please? And a glass of fruit juice."

Hob is ordering for his Stranger not because they're friends, but because he looks like he needs it. He would have done the same for any homeless person he saw on the street.

And if his Stranger doesn't eat it before leaving, then Hob will. Hob doesn't order two plates because what would be the use of that? He knows his Stranger would be turned off at the sight of him eating. He has before, in 1589, so Hob knows not to do it again.

Dani the waitress, one of the kids he put through college, nods and goes to tell the cook to prepare the meal.

When Hob looks back at his Stranger, he is looking at Hob oddly.

"What?"

"I am not early for 2089, Hob," he says. "I am late for 1989. I meant to come, but was unable to." A pause, and the tiniest bowing of his head. "I apologize."

Were Hob still thinking they could be friends, he would have asked about what happened to make him miss their meeting. But he knows it's not any of his business, and he'd hate for his Stranger to leave without eating.

"Oh, it's fine," Hob says. He has already put his Stranger into the 'old customer from the old tavern' category, and it's never any of his business to ask about the customers' personal lives. He would help, if they ask, but he won't go out of his way to be an irritating person and pester them to let him help them. "Water under the bridge and all. How have you been?"

There, see? Hob can be polite without being friendly.

"I'm fine," his Stranger says. There was a brief pause before he answered. Hob noticed, but he ignores it. Hob from before would have obsessed about that tiny pause, but not this Hob. This one has learned his lesson.

"That's good," Hob says, smiling. "Listen, I ordered for you, but it's alright if you don't eat it. I'll just take it to-go and eat it for dinner. No pressure at all."

"I will eat it," his Stranger says.

Hob smiles wider. "Wonderful. It will take about 5 to 10 minutes before the food arrives."

Niceties out of the way, Hob resumes checking his students' papers. It's so nice to not make an effort at conversation. It had opened up his time for other more important matters. He wishes his Stranger had taught him that. Or maybe he was meant to learn by observation.

Ah, well. Hob has always been slow on the uptake.

"Hob."

He marks where he is on his student's essay with a finger and looks up. "Yes, Stranger?"

His Stranger visibly hesitates for a moment before he says, "My name is Dream. Dream of the Endless."

Dream of the Endless.

After 600 years, Hob finally gets a name.

He thought he'd be ecstatic. So over the moon with joy that he would jump to his feet and let out an exuberant laugh at finally knowing.

Instead he feels nothing.

He doesn't know what an Endless is, but it sounds pretty important and very much none of his business. He takes the information his Stranger provides him, and says with a smile reserved for new acquaintances, "Hello, Dream of the Endless. Pleasure to put a name to the face."

Hob asks nothing else, and says nothing else. He waits a couple of seconds for his Stranger, Dream, to say something else if he wants, but when nothing comes, Hob goes back to checking his students' papers.

Midway through reading another essay, Dream asks, "Have you been well this past century?"

"Hm?" Hob marks a student's wrong answer. "Oh, well enough, I suppose. Two world wars, moon landing, the internet...but otherwise it's the same old life. And yes, before you ask, I still wish to live."

His 1489 self would have been so excited to talk about the moon landing and the internet. He would have made powerpoint presentations, bought memorabilia to show off, and be such a nuisance that he'd get kicked out of the Inn.

This Hob knows better than to make all that effort, however, and so he doesn't elaborate. It's just like seeing someone reading a newspaper on the Tube, reading the headlines, and exclaiming, 'Did that really happen?' And the person reading the newspaper saying, 'Yeah. World's fucked nowadays,' and the conversation would end there.

"The moon landing?"

"Yeah," Hob says. "Americans went to the moon and planted their county's flag there in 1969. You can read all about it on the internet if you want. Too much history for me to summarize."

"I am not familiar with the internet."

Hob blinks at that. "Oh." He doesn't ask where Dream has been to not be familiar with the internet. For all he knows, Dream's new storyteller friend is from another planet. "Well..."

Then, quite unexpectedly, Dream says, "Will you explain it to me?"

Hob scratches his neck and looks at the dozen or so papers he has yet to check. "I suppose?" It wasn't in his plans to explain the internet to a supernatural entity, but for the sake of their centuries old deal, Hob supposes he can spare the time. "If you're sure?"

Dream nods, and so Hob starts talking.

--

Dream eats his food as promised, and when he polished that one off and still looked hungry, Hob orders another dish. And then another. And then another. He always waits for Dream to finish his meal before ordering again, in case he gets full midway through a plate.

Dream does not volunteer information about his sudden hunger for mortal food, and so Hob does not press him. Dani, thankfully, is the quiet sort who just does her job well and doesn't stick her nose where it doesn't belong.

For this reason, she is one of Hob's favorite employees, being smarter than Hob himself when he was her age.

As Dream eats, Hob explains the internet to him like how he would explain the internet to a time traveler from the 1800s.

Dream listens to him raptly. It's a little unnerving how focused he was. 1589 Hob would have loved to have him as his audience. 2022 Hob is just a bit weirded out, especially when he notices Dream's shoulders relax against the seat's backrest, like he's listening to his favorite radio station, at ease in his own home.

When Hob finishes explaining, Dream (surprisingly) has follow-up questions, and so Hob answers them too.

(He had to ask for water so he could soothe his throat after a lot of talking.)

If Dream doesn't ask, then Hob doesn't explain. It's that simple. He volunteers no information about his life, and certainly no personal anecdotes to accompany his explanations, because they're not close enough for that.

--

More than a couple of hours pass, and Hob starts gathering his things and packing up. It will be a while before The New Inn closes, but Hob still has laundry to do, papers to check, and plants to water. He tells Dream that it has been good seeing him and walks out of the Inn.

Dream follows him.

"Hob."

"Yeah?"

"I wish to bid you good night."

Dream...has been weird today. He has never bid good night to Hob before. Not even a goodbye, come to think of it. "Oh," Hob says, feeling wrong-footed. "Sure. Good night. Take care going back home."

He doesn't ask if their next meeting will be in 2089 or in 2122. Dream will show up whenever he wants to show up. Hob isn't going to wait for him. It's even only a coincidence that Hob went to the Inn on this date.

In fact, he hadn't even known that today was June 7th. He only saw the date when he looked something up on his phone for clarification.

"I was hoping we could meet again," Dream says, when Hob says nothing else and was turning to leave. "Perhaps same time next week?"

Hob mentally reviews his calendar. "Sorry, I have a whole day of lectures and a practical exam to conduct then."

Dream is not deterred. "May I ask when you will be free, then?"

Hob scratches his cheek. "I mean, I guess I'll be free on Friday, just after 5 PM?"

"Then I will see you," Dream says. "Here. On our table."

His statement makes Hob laugh. "There's no our table, Dream. But sure, I'll see you." He turns away and walks the short distance to his house.

He is sure that Dream will not show. But it doesn't matter, because Hob is gonna go to the Inn on that date and time to buy dinner anyway. Dream could decide to surprise him and show up outside of their centennial meetings, but it wouldn't affect his schedule at all.

--

Dream watches Hob walk away, and his heart breaks.

Is this what Hob felt when Dream walked away from him in 1889?

No. He must have felt worse.

Dream had walked away in anger, after saying words that he has regretted ever since they left his lips, leaving Hob uncertain if they'll ever meet again.

Hob had walked away just now after agreeing to meet with him.

But his manner is distant. Has been distant, throughout the day. He doesn't care if he sees Dream again. If Dream does not show up at the appointed time next week, he would stay and have dinner on his own. But he would not question Dream's absence. He would just put it down as yet another instant of Dream blowing him off again, like he did last time.

Dream should be pleased.

This is what he wanted, isnt it? For the two of them to be no closer than casual acquaintances? Because Dream had been too prideful to consider being friends with a mortal.

And now Hob is granting him his wish. He had taken Dream's words to heart and is now holding himself distant from him.

Just as Dream realizes too late that he doesn't want that after all.

After his stupid pride hurt Hob in 1889, after his lonely imprisonment when his most constant thought, the only one that gave him hope, is the memory of Hob's beautiful smile, and of seeing it again once he gets free...

He wants Hob to look at him how he has always looked at him before today. With friendship, and perhaps with something more. Except that might not be possible anymore.

Dream doesn't know what to do. He fucked up the one good thing in his life, and made Hob believe that he is nothing, when all along, he has been everything to Dream.

[olive-gardens-breadstick]

there was a loud slam that drew the classes attention away from their teachers endless rant about his hatred for Shakespeare (which he never pronounced correctly) with in the doors frame stood an extremely pale man in all black. his eyes looked to be made out of obsidian and also looked like they held the anger of the entire world, but also, worry? is that what they were seeing? as he marched down the stairs of the lecture hall every writer in the room was filled with so much inspiration, (especially the ones closest to the aisle) this was appreciated as they had a creative writing assignment and they needed a topic, they felt the need to write a story, it was foggy in their minds but they knew what they were going to write all they needed was something to put the story on, and they could of course, they had laptops ands phones but this strangers was so. captivating.

their teacher realized he was ranting to the backs of heads and looked toward the stairs as his stranger (in his eyes) strutted to him

“hello, not that’s bad to see you but what exactly, pray tell, are you doing here?” hob said as he drank from his coffee pot

“you have not been seen in three days” hob could tell he was angry but not why “and i thought something had happened to you but no here you are. do you simply refuse to sleep?” dream demanded as he took the pot

hob scrunched up his face and reached for his coffee “yes i do”

morpheus pulled it back “why?” he asked while he poured the coffee on the floor

“because he was there! how long has he been there?” hob yelled as he took off his jacket to soak up the coffee “also! there was a trash can right here, you didn’t have to pour it on the floor!”

dream ignored the last part “you need to sleep, you can’t survive without it” hob looked back at him with a look that confused the students “not properly at least”

hob stood back up with his jacket and folded his arms “oh yeah and what are you gonna do about it?”

the students felt like they were watching an old married couple, which was strange as professor gadling never mentioned a partner. and they watched as the pale man who radiated inspiration got a devious smile on his face a threw their teacher over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and start walking out. the look on their teachers face wasn’t one of surprise (well it was for a moment) but one of acceptance.

“remember your creative writing assignment” he said with a sigh as he was carried out the door

a few days later the assignments all told a very similar story of two people who meet once every century and end up falling in love, confused he takes a nap to ask lucienne about it

lucienne laughing says “the king is the god of stories, they probably got it from him, he was experiencing very strong emotions the other day”

“and the romance part?” hob asks with his head in his hands

“who knows” lucienne says smiling while putting some books back “it is a creative writing class after all, maybe they felt romantic undertones from the idea”

“they are also young” will says knowingly “young people always have romance on the mind”

“shut up shaxberd” hob says with a groan

hc

shakespeare died in his sleep and is now a resident of the dreaming

hob doesn’t know until he visits lucienne in the library one time and that bastard shaxberd is just. there. chilling. reading twilight or something.

hob is so shocked he wakes up immediately and refuses to fall asleep again for 3 days

dream is alarmed when he notices his absence and rushes to look for him in the waking bc something terrible must have happened to hob

but no he finds hob teaching his class as usual with a gallon of coffee and on his most passionate anti-shakespeare tangent ever

[avelera]

Hob, Dream, and their dead sons

I keep coming back to the fact that both Hob and Dream had a wife they loved and lost and a son who died as a young man.

And you can see that Tom Sturridge as Dream knew that, knew the full story of Dream, because it's there in his eyes in the scenes with Hob. It's there in his performance when Hob first shows the tiny portrait of his wife and son in 1589. For most of that scene, you can tell Dream's distracted, even repelled by Hob's excesses in favor of Shaxberd's poetry. The one time he pays undivided attention to Hob is when he brings out the portrait of his family and you see--not jealousy--but perhaps fear, or fearful anticipation of the pain he knows Hob will go through as an immortal in a few short decades at most. Dream does not warn Hob--I don't think Hob would have listened anyway-- but he knows what's coming.

In 1689, when Hob has lost everything, it's not until he talks about losing his wife and son that Dream's expression goes from concerned to grief-stricken.

"My boy Robyn, died in a tavern brawl when he was twenty, I didn't go out much after that..." Hob says. That is when Dream begins to see himself in the tragedies of Hob's life. It's not a stretch to imagine that Dream became a recluse after Orpheus's death* when he also separated from his wife Calliope because of the grief they felt.

That's what makes Hob's next declaration so stunning for Dream. He has hated every second of the last 80 years and so Dream asks him, "So, do you still wish to live?"

There are tears in Dream's eyes when he asks this. He thinks he knows the answer because he has been exactly where Hob is now. And one gets the sense that were he not one of the Endless, he would have ended it back then. It's clear the grief nearly destroyed him, that he still carries it, visibly, in every part of him.

But instead, Hob says, "Are you crazy?" And Dream frowns in surprise. "Death is a mug's game. I got so much to live for!"

Dream is stunned. Impressed. Thoughtful. I don't think it's a stretch to wonder: is this what Death intended when she introduced Dream to a man with such a strong will to live? For this exact moment when, weighted by the inevitable tragedies of trying to live as a normal man while immortal, Hob shows Dream how to continue on, how to choose life over and over again, not out of obligation or duty, but because he by just being alive has so much to live for?

And one final note on the loss of their sons, the revelation paints nuances into the picture of Roderick Burgess begging that Dream bring his son back to life. Not only does he ask for what is not Dream's to give, he asks for what Dream, the brother of Death, could not even give himself.

(*Calliope refers to Orpheus as dead in the show. The comic does complicate this statement somewhat, but for the purpose of this meta, I'm separating the tv show canon from comic canon as they are different stories.)

[darthstitch]

FIC Snippet: History Class Cryptids

Hob Gadling has many, many issues with one William Shakespeare.

He especially hates Sonnet 29 the most.

The worst part of this? He can't even claim that William bloody attention grabber twat Shaxberd plagiarized those gods-cursed verses. Because while Hob didn't write those words, he certainly lived them. Every bleeding, teeth-grinding, soul-destroying moment.

Goddamn William Shakespeare anyway.

Really, he didn't ask to end up falling for one moody, mercurial disaster of an anthropomorphic personification of a concept. No, sir, he did not. He didn't even know what or who his Stranger actually was and had spent the first century debating with himself whether he had inadvertently made some sort of pact with a demon, the actual Devil, or one of the Fair Folk.

But even then, he remembered thinking, God's blood, I have never seen anyone so fair, so beautiful.

And he'd done the sensible thing and promptly put that thought out of his head because his mother had not raised her children to be fools and Robert "Hob" Gadling was anything but.

He'd done even more sensible things after that. Fought and slogged his way through a few wars, in the name of one king or the other, Plantagenet, Lancaster, York and Tudor. Had his adventures both good and bad, and watched the world around him change and grow. Every moment filled him with joy and wonder. Made his fortune and married his darling Eleanor and had their son Robyn.

And in between those centuries, he'd have a night of stories with the man he'd called his Stranger, a chance to see those lovely, twilight eyes gleam with interest or amusement, to see those lips curve in that tiny, precious smile. Something in Hob's heart eased when he saw that, made him so ridiculously pleased and proud of himself to have brought that expression to his Stranger's face.

That look had not been there, the night that Will bloody fucking Shaxberd had stolen his Stranger's attention.

About a year after he had lost his dear Robyn, Hob had the oddest conversation with a golden-eyed man? woman? in his bedroom. He'd been deep in his cups then and hadn't even thought to be alarmed to see some other strange person in his home.

Beautiful was too poor a word to describe them, fey and dangerous and alluring.

***

Um. Ooops?

*runs*